"I need a guide to some petrol," he said. "Evidently you can't go with
me."

"Haven't you enough petrol to take you to Lorient?"

"How far is Lorient?"

Wayland told him.

"I don't know," said the flight-lieutenant; "I'll have to try to get
somewhere. I suppose it is useless for me to ask," he added, "but have
you, by any chance, a bit of canvas--an old sail or hammock?--I don't need
much. That's what I came for--and some shellac and wire, and a screwdriver
of sorts? We need patching as well as petrol; and we're a little short of
supplies."

Wayland's steady gaze never left him, but his smile was friendly.

"We're in a tearing hurry, too," added the flight-lieutenant, looking out
of the window.

Wayland smiled. "Of course there's no petrol here. There's nothing here. I
don't suppose you could have landed in a more deserted region if you had
tried. There's a chateau in the Lais woods, but it's closed; owner and
servants are at the war and the family in Paris."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Everybody has cleared out; the war has
stripped the country; and there never were any people on these moors,
excepting shooting parties and, in the summer, a stray artist or two from
Quimperle."

The lieutenant looked at him. "You say there is nobody here--between here
and Lorient? No--troops?"

"There's nothing to guard. The coast is one vast shoal. Ships pass hull
down. Once a day a coast guard patrols along the cliffs----"

"When?"

"He has passed, unfortunately. Otherwise he might signal by relay to
Lorient and have them send you out some petrol. By the way--are you
hungry?"

The flight-lieutenant showed all his firm, white teeth under a yellow
mustache, which curled somewhat upward. He laughed in a carefree way, as
though something had suddenly eased his mind of perplexity--perhaps the
certainty that there was no possible chance for petrol. Certainty is said
to be more endurable than suspense.

"I'll stop for a bite--if you don't mind--while my pilot tinkers out
yonder," he said. "We're not in such a bad way. It might easily have been
worse. Do you think you could find us a bit of sail, or something, to use
for patching?"

Wayland indicated an old high-backed chair of oak, quaintly embellished
with ancient leather in faded blue and gold. It had been a royal chair in
its day, or the Fleur-de-Lys lied.

The flight-lieutenant seated himself with a rather stiff bow.

"If you need canvas"--Wayland hesitated--the