“Good. Then bring me the hose from the petrol tank. It’s there beside you in the corner. You can run it in while I’m workin’.” She did as she was bid, climbing up with a feeling of exultation into the tall machine beside him. “The reserve tank first--” he whispered. “Up here between the planes. Here’s a wrench. The opening is on the top.” They worked side by side, noiselessly and efficiently, Hammersley fitting the missing spark-plugs and connecting a new coil wire which had been removed. He looked over the machine carefully, but could find nothing else missing, or even needing adjustment, for he had taken care yesterday morning, as was his custom, to go over the engine with his own hands. The impairment of the engine was of no serious consequence, and intended only to delay. Von Stromberg had not counted on such a chance for readjustment as this, or upon Hammersley’s reserve supply of necessary material. And unless they had done something else that he could not discover--but what? While he worked Hammersley tried to think, casting between times anxious glances at the gears, the propellers and the control wires. The reserve tank of petrol was filled and the hose was steadily pouring the stuff into the one under the forward cockpit, which was full by the time the plugs and wires were all adjusted. “That will be enough, Doris,” he whispered. “We only need to get to the English lines. There’s no time for more.” She saw him try the wheel, watching the connecting gear keenly, and, when he ordered it, she climbed down into the rear seat. He gave her a leather coat, gloves and helmet, and buckled her into her seat. Then, in a state of nervous tension, they waited. She saw Cyril climb down, coolly wiping his hands with a piece of waste, restore the hose to its place, and then peer out from a slit in the canvas door. Then he bent over, and running quickly along the flap from side to side, one after another quickly unfastened the toggles which held it in place. “We’ve got to chance it now,” he whispered up to her. “If she doesn’t work--God help us----” “But the canvas----” “The machine will----” He stopped abruptly, for Doris’s eyes were staring in panic at something behind him. Hammersley whirled quickly toward the slit in the canvas, his automatic in his hand. There, not four paces away, blinking into the dusk, stood the tall figure of His Excellency, General Graf von Stromberg. CHAPTER XXII FROM THE HEIGHTS Hammersley had him covered, and the General made no move to defend himself. He bent his head and folded his arms, peering into Hammersley’s eyes like a short-sighted man trying to adjust his vision to an unaccustomed task. But his frown relaxed almost immediately and his lips separated, showing a gleam of teeth. “My compliments, Herr Hammersley,” he said. “You have done well. It pleases me to meet at last----”