“Once out of danger I throttled my engine, for nothing tears a machine to pieces quicker than running on full power from a height.  It was a glorious, spiral vol-plane from nearly eight miles of altitude—­first, to the level of the silver cloud-bank, then to that of the storm-cloud beneath it, and finally, in beating rain, to the surface of the earth.  I saw the Bristol Channel beneath me as I broke from the clouds, but, having still some petrol in my tank, I got twenty miles inland before I found myself stranded in a field half a mile from the village of Ashcombe.  There I got three tins of petrol from a passing motor-car, and at ten minutes past six that evening I alighted gently in my own home meadow at Devizes, after such a journey as no mortal upon earth has ever yet taken and lived to tell the tale.  I have seen the beauty and I have seen the horror of the heights—­and greater beauty or greater horror than that is not within the ken of man.

“And now it is my plan to go once again before I give my results to the world.  My reason for this is that I must surely have something to show by way of proof before I lay such a tale before my fellow-men.  It is true that others will soon follow and will confirm what I have said, and yet I should wish to carry conviction from the first.  Those lovely iridescent bubbles of the air should not be hard to capture.  They drift slowly upon their way, and the swift monoplane could intercept their leisurely course.  It is likely enough that they would dissolve in the heavier layers of the atmosphere, and that some small heap of amorphous jelly might be all that I should bring to earth with me.  And yet something there would surely be by which I could substantiate my story.  Yes, I will go, even if I run a risk by doing so.  These purple horrors would not seem to be numerous.  It is probable that I shall not see one.  If I do I shall dive at once.  At the worst there is always the shot-gun and my knowledge of . . .”

Here a page of the manuscript is unfortunately missing.  On the next page is written, in large, straggling writing: 

“Forty-three thousand feet.  I shall never see earth again.  They are beneath me, three of them.  God help me; it is a dreadful death to die!”

Such in its entirety is the Joyce-Armstrong Statement.  Of the man nothing has since been seen.  Pieces of his shattered monoplane have been picked up in the preserves of Mr. Budd-Lushington upon the borders of Kent and Sussex, within a few miles of the spot where the note-book was discovered.  If the unfortunate aviator’s theory is correct that this air-jungle, as he called it, existed only over the south-west of England, then it would seem that he had fled from it at the full speed of his monoplane, but had been overtaken and devoured by these horrible creatures at some spot in the outer atmosphere above the place where the grim relics were found.  The picture of that monoplane skimming down the sky, with the