I couldn't have done that. You must get the gift from your uncle."
Mrs. Windleband's uncle was one of those learned professors who can recognize a giant mastodon from a shin-bone dug out of an African swamp.
"I think," said Mrs. Windleband, "that we ought to go and see what we can do for Mr. Bleke."
"I don't," rejoined her husband, decidedly. "They've torn up our croquet lawn with that infernal machine of theirs. My instincts are all against stirring a finger on Mr. Bleke's behalf."
His wife stared at him in astonishment.
"Are you quite well, dear?" she asked, in an anxious tone. "You don't seem to understand. Roland Bleke netted forty thousand pounds when he won the Calcutta Sweep. That was only a little more than a month ago. From what they say of him in the papers—it seems he's only a seed merchant's clerk in some small provincial town—he can't have spent it all yet. He wouldn't know how."
A light began to dawn upon her husband. He rose quickly from his chair. The old fighting spirit asserted itself once more. Napoleon was himself again. Waterloo might yet be averted.
"'You made me love you—I didn't want to do it,'" he hummed, inconsequently. "But, by gum, if ever a man married the right woman it was my father's only son. Come along, old girl. You're quite right. The commonest instincts of humanity demand that we should go to the assistance of this unfortunate Mr. Bleke."
When they got down to where the aeroplane was lying they found the little man in overalls busy tinkering at the engine. His companion was watching the operation in a helpless sort of way, and the Windlebands noticed that, in spite of the heat of the morning, he was shivering violently.
"Not had an accident, I hope, Mr. Bleke?" inquired Dermot, pleasantly.
Roland Bleke turned and looked at him with watery, lack-lustre eyes. Roland was being kept too busy, by one of the worst colds of the century, to have time to wonder, even, how this stranger came to know his name.
"Doe; doe accident, thag you," he replied, miserably, as he blew his nose. "Something's gone wrog; but it's not very serious, I'm afraig."
M. Feriaud, having by this time adjusted the defect in his engine, rose to his feet and bowed to the Windlebands.
"Excuse if we come down on your lawn," he said, apologetically, "but we do not trespass long. See, mon ami," he turned, radiant, to Roland, "everything O.K. now. We go on."
"No," said Roland, very decidedly.
"Hein? What you mean—No?"
"I mean that I'm not going on."
A shade of alarm clouded M. Feriaud's weather-beaten features. The eminent birdman did not wish to part with Roland. Towards Roland he felt like a brother. Roland had notions about payment for little aeroplane flights which bordered on princely.
"But you cannot give up now," he objected, almost tearfully. "You say, 'Take me to France wis you'"
"Daresay I did," admitted Roland. "But it's all off now; see? Rather than trust myself again in that machine of yours I'd"
What it was that he would rather do than trust himself again to the aeroplane Roland Bleke, for some reason, elected not to divulge; but his manner gave one to understand that it would be something considerable.
"But it is not fair! It is all wrong!" protested M. Feriaud, turning with an aggrieved air of appeal to the Windlebands, and gesticulating freely in illustration of his wrongs. "He give me one hundred pounds to take him away from Lexingham. Good. It is here." He slapped his breast pocket. "But the other two hundred pounds which he promise to pay me when I land him safe across the Shannel—where is zat?" He took Roland by the arm. "No, no, mon ami; business are business. You must come wis me."
Roland broke away from the birdman's clutch.
"I will give you," he said, hastily getting out his pocket-book, "two hundred and fifty pounds to leave me safe where I am."
A smile of brotherly forgiveness lit up M. Feriaud's face. The generous Gallic nature asserted itself. He held out his arms affectionately to Roland.
"Ah—now you talk!" he cried, in his impetuous way. "Embrassez-moi, mon cher! You are fine shap."
Roland escaped the proffered embrace by busying himself with counting out the banknotes which he had taken from his case.
Roland heaved a sigh of relief when, five minutes later, the aeroplane rose dizzily into the air and flew away in the direction of the sea; then he indulged in a series of sneezes that made the welkin ring.
"You're not well, you know," said Dermot, looking at him critically.
