The caretaker came running down the drive to unlock the gates. He was an ill-favoured man of fifty with a perpetual scowl, which even the presence of his master could not wholly eradicate.
“Has anybody been here, Masters?” asked Digby.
“No, sir,” said the man, “except the flying gentleman. He came this morning. What a wonderful thing flying is, sir! The way he came down in the Home Park was wonderful to see.”
“Get on the step with the driver,” said Digby curtly, who was not interested in his servitor’s views of flying.
The car drove through a long avenue of elms and turned to breast a treeless slope that led up to the lower terrace. All the beauty and loveliness of Somerset in which it stood could not save Kennett Hall from the reproach of dreariness. Its parapets were crumbled by the wind and rain of long-forgotten seasons, and its face was scarred and stained with thirty winters’ rains. Its black and dusty windows seemed to leer upon the fresh clean beauty of the world, as though in pride of its sheer ugliness.
For twenty years no painter’s brush had touched the drab and ugly woodwork: and the weeds grew high where roses used to bloom. Three great white seats of marble, that were placed against the crumbling terrace balustrade, were green with drippings from the neglected trees; the terrace floor was broken and the rags and tatters of dead seasons spread their mouldering litter of leaves and twigs and moss upon the marble walk where stately dames had trodden in those brave days when Kennett Hall was a name to inspire awe.
Digby was not depressed by his view of the property. He had seen it before, and at one time had thought of pulling it down and erecting a modern building for his own comfort.
The man he had called Masters unlocked the big door and ushered him into the house.
The neglect was here apparent. As he stepped into the big bleak entrance he heard the scurry and scamper of tiny feet and smiled.
“You’ve got some rats here?”
“Rats?” said Masters in a tone of resignation, “there’s a colony of them, sir. It is as much as I can do to keep them out of my quarters, but there’s nothing in the east wing,” he hastened to add. “I had a couple of terriers and ferrets here for a month keeping them down, and they’re all on this side of the house.” He jerked his head to the right.
“Is the flying gentleman here?”
“He’s having breakfast, sir, at this minute.”
Digby followed the caretaker down a long gloomy passage on the ground floor, and passed through the door that the man opened.
The bearded Villa nodded with a humorous glint in his eye as Digby entered. From his appearance and dress, he had evidently arrived by aeroplane.
“Well, you got here,” said Digby, glancing at the huge meal which had been put before the man.
“I got here,” said Villa with an extravagant flourish of his knife. “But only by the favour of the gods. I do not like these scout machines: you must get Bronson to pilot it back.”
Digby nodded, and pulling out a rickety chair, sat down.
“I have given instructions for Bronson to come here: he will arrive tonight,” he said.
“Good,” muttered the man, continuing his meal.
Masters had gone, and Villa was listening to the receding sound of his footsteps upon the uncovered boards, before he asked:
“What is the idea of this, governor? You are not changing headquarters?”
“I don’t know,” replied Digby shortly, “but the Seaford aerodrome is under observation. At least, Steele knows, or guesses, all about it. I have decided to hire some commercial pilots to give an appearance of genuine business to the company.”
Villa whistled.
“This place is no use to you, governor,” he said, shaking his head. “They’d tumble to Kennett Hall—that’s what you call it, isn’t it?” He had an odd way of introducing slang words into his tongue, for he spoke in Spanish, and Digby smiled at “tumble.”
“You’re becoming quite an expert in the English language, Villa.”
“But why are you coming here?” persisted the other. “This could only be a temporary headquarters. Is the game slipping?” he asked suddenly.
Digby nodded.
“It may come to a case of sauve qui peut,” he said, “though I hope it will not. Everything depends upon—” He did not finish his sentence, but asked abruptly: “How far is the sea from here?”
“Not a great distance,” was the reply. “I travelled at six thousand feet and I could see the Bristol Channel quite distinctly.”
Digby was stroking his chin, looking thoughtfully at the table.
“I can trust you, Villa,” he said, “so I tell you now, much as you dislike these fast machines, you’ve got to hold yourself in readiness to pilot me to safety. Again, I say that I do not think it will come to flight, but we must be prepared. In the meantime, I have a commission for you,” he said. “It was not only to bring the machine that I arranged for you to come to this place.”
Villa had guessed that.
“There is a man in Deauville to whom you have probably seen references in the newspapers, a man named Maxilla. He is a rich coffee planter of Brazil.”
“The gambler?” said the other in surprise, and Digby nodded.
“I happen to know that Maxilla has had a very bad time; he lost nearly twenty million francs in one week, and that doesn’t represent all his losses. He has
