“Distance is very deceptive at night,” he said. “That light is probably five or six miles away. It’s devilish fortunate,” he went on. “I know exactly where we are. This is the War Office rifle ground at Stoke Bay, about six miles out of Lympne. I was at Dover during the war and know the whole of this country like my pocket. So, when the engine started petering out over the Channel just now, I steered straight for this spot.” “How long is it going to take you to put things right?” asked Desmond. The pilot shook his head sadly at the plane. “Can’t say. At any rate, I’ll never get up here again in the dark. We’d break our necks most likely. You’ll have to go on to London in the morning.” Desmond swore under his breath. It seemed to him that the airman was taking things very lightly. “That’s all very well,” he remarked with some heat. “But I’m on duty, and it is essential that I should get on to town without delay. And in any case Miss Brewster can’t spend the night in the open, you know. What are we going to do about it? Isn’t there anybody we can knock up?” “It’s just occurred to me,” answered the pilot, wiping his hands on a wisp of cotton waste, “that I know a fellow who lives close at hand. Magnus is his name, a very sound chap. He has a bungalow a piece down the beach road. We’ll knock him up. I’ve no doubt when we’ve explained things to him he’ll be pleased to give us a shake-down for the night. He’s on the telephone, too. Just let me turn off the juice!” He clambered back into the cockpit and busied himself with the engine. Desmond and Miss Brewster alighted. Suddenly the former felt his sleeve plucked. He turned round to find Mary Brewster’s big eyes staring at him. With an upward glance at the machine, she drew her companion unobtrusively aside. “Don’t trust him!” she whispered. “He’s . . . he’s got a dishonest face! How do you know that this landing isn’t a plant? He cut off the engine on purpose; I’m sure he did. He meant to land here all along. Look at the ground! It’s perfectly smooth. It’s an aerodrome . . .” “Aerodrome?” broke in the pilot. He had descended from the machine and was standing behind them. “Of course it’s an aerodrome, an experimental ground. That’s why I steered for it.” Desmond looked at him. Certainly the fellow had a shifty eye. Now that he regarded the pilot more closely, he noticed that he seemed to be labouring under some excitement. The man saw that the other had remarked his distress. “It’s a nervy business, landing in the dark!” he was quick to explain. Desmond felt that his suspicions were ungenerous. He knew how airmen loathe night-flying. “You made a devilish good landing!” he said. “I’m afraid you must have thought us very unappreciative. Now, what about your friend Magnus?”