No Accident

Late one afternoon last month in Jacksonville, Fla. Gordon Morange Stanton was driving his automobile along Ortega Boulevard three blocks from the home of his wife's wealthy parents. His only companion was his pet bulldog. On a curve the car overturned. The dog was killed instantly. Stanton died that night.

Inconsolable was Louise Turck Stanton, a slight, dark-haired woman of 32. She had her husband's casket brought to the Turck home where they had spent their one year of married life. She slept beside it on a daybed in the reception hall. After the funeral she resumed her flying which two years before had led to her romance with Gordon Stanton at the municipal airport.

One morning last week she drove to the airport, ordered a plane with "plenty of gasoline." With a cheery wave to the field crew she took off, headed east, toward the Atlantic.

After four hours an anxious field manager wandered to her automobile, found a bundle of letters. One was addressed to him. It read:

"I'm just going out into space to find out what it's all about and if there isn't anything--that's O. K. too. There's not a plane on the field that could reach me (and return) or do anything if they could. . . . You must absolutely keep any of the men from doing any dangerous searching. ... I can guarantee that it wouldn't do any good. Sorry to have it that way but it's better than having an aviation 'accident.' "

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