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Page 3
CHAPTER I
THE CABLEGRAM
"Tenez! up! up! Ah ça! A clean shave, mister, hein?"
A touch on the lever had sent the aeroplane soaring aloft at a steep
angle, and she cleared by little more than a hair's breadth the edge
of a thick plantation of firs.
"A close shave, as you say, Roddy," came the answer. And then the
speaker let forth a gust of wrathful language which his companion
heard in sympathetic silence.
Lieutenant Charles Thesiger Smith, of H.M.S. _Imperturbable_, was
normally a good-tempered fellow, and his outburst would have deceived
nobody who knew him so well as Laurent Rodier.
It was the dusk of an evening in mid spring. Above, the sky was clear,
washed by the rain that had fallen without intermission since early
morning. Below, the chill of coming night, acting on the
moisture-laden air, had covered the land with a white mist, that
curled and heaved beneath the aeroplane in huge waves. It looked like
a billowy sea of cotton-wool, but the airmen who had just emerged from
it, had no comfort in its soft embrace. Their eyes were smarting, they
drew their breath painfully, and little streams of water trickling
from the soaked planes made cold, shuddering streaks on their faces
and necks.
An hour ago they had sailed by Salisbury spire, calculating that a few
minutes' run, at two or three miles a minute, would bring them to
their destination on the outskirts of Portsmouth. But a few miles
south the baffling mist had made its appearance, and Smith found
himself bereft of landmarks, and compelled to tack to and fro in utter
uncertainty of his course. He was as much at a loss as if he were
navigating a vessel in a sea-fog. To sail through the mist was to
incur the risk of striking a tree, a chimney, or a church steeple; to
pursue his flight above it in the deepening dusk might carry him miles
out of his way, and though a southerly course must presently bring him
to the sea, he could not tell how far east or west of his intended
landing-place. Meanwhile the petrol was running short, and it was
clear that before long his dilemma would be solved by the engine
stopping, and bringing him to the ground willy-nilly, goodness knows
where.
This was vexing enough, but in the particular circumstances it was a
crowning stroke of misfortune. To-day was the twenty-first of his
twenty-eight days' leave: to-morrow he was to begin a round of what he
called duty visits among his relatives; he would have to motor, play
golf, dance attendance on girls at theatres and concerts, and spur
himself to a thousand activities that he detested. There was no escape
for him. Perhaps he could have faced this seven days' penance more
equably if he had had the recollection of three well-employed weeks to
sweeten it. Even this was denied him. Ever since he came on leave the
weather had been abominable: high wind, incessant rain, all the
elements conspiring to prevent the enjoyment of his hobby. Rodier had
suggested that he should apply for an extension of leave, but Smith,
though he did not lack courage, could not screw it to this pitch. He
remembered too vividly his interview with the captain when coming off
ship.
"Don't smash yourself up," said the captain, "and don't run things too
fine. You're always late in getting back from leave. Last time you
only got in by the skin of your teeth, when we were off shooting, too.
If you overstep the mark again you'll find yourself brought up with a
round turn, you may take my word for it."
"I couldn't beg off after that," he said to Rodier. "Anyway, it's
rotten bad luck."
"Précisément ca!" said Rodier sympathetically.
For some little time they sailed slowly on, seeking in vain for a rift
in the blanket of mist: then Rodier cried suddenly--
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