Between two and five o’clock was the unknown quantity of distance. By accepting this period he had decided that Lois had been taken to a spot between an hour and a half and two hours distant from the metropolis. He also guessed the aeroplane theory was right, that the place of detention and the aerodrome were within twenty miles by car, and six or seven miles if the abductor drove or walked. The Cambridge aerodrome was an ideal fulfilment of his calculations. So was Whitcomb, on the borders of Somerset. He came to the aerodrome in time to catch the manager just before he left for the night, showed his authority, which had a more official value than Lady Moron had imagined, and accompanied the manager to his office. “The gentleman’s name was Stone. We had a telephone message late last night from London, asking us to have a machine waiting to take him to France, and he arrived on time.” He described the traveller so faithfully that Michael could almost see Chesney Praye standing before him. “That is the gentleman,” he said. “How did he get here?--Did he come here by car?” The manager shook his head. “No, he came up in a trap to the end of the field and walked the rest of the distance.” “A horse-drawn trap? Who drove him?” “That I cannot tell you. It was too far away to see. I know very few people here.” Michael considered for a moment. “Perhaps you will show me where the trap set down.” And, as a thought struck him: “Have you an Ordnance map of this district?” This request the manager was able to satisfy. He could also show him on the plan the point at which the passenger had left the cart. Michael traced the road with the tip of his finger, and then began a wide sweep in search of houses. “That’s Lord Kelver’s place. I do happen to know that, because I’ve been there. That’s the house of his bailiff.” When Michael touched another red square: “That’s the road to Ilfey Village. There is an inn there, the Red Lion, where he may have been putting up,” he suggested, but Michael rejected the likelihood of Chesney having stayed in the neighbourhood. “What is this place?” His finger paused, but the manager shook his head. “I don’t remember it. Perhaps one of my mechanics will be able to tell us.” He went out and came back with a workman who bent over the map. “That is Gallows Farm,” he said. “It is an old place--been there for hundreds of years. I don’t know who has it now, but he isn’t a farmer--at least, I never saw any cattle coming out of his yard.” There was a telephone on the table; Michael took it up and gave the number of the nearest police station. He introduced himself and then put his question and waited whilst the particulars were found. “Gallows Farm was let twelve months ago to a Mr. ----” He gave a name which was unfamiliar to Dorn. “There’s nobody there except the gentleman and his housekeeper.”