was that I had discovered during my eager and constant investigations, from one of the boys at Hendon—Dick Ferguson, who was flying a new R. E. P. 'Parasol,' that on the very evening of the day that I had called at Albemarle Street to find him ill in bed, he had met him in Hatchett's in Piccadilly, and had actually dined with him there in the grill-room.
When I had sat at Eastwell's bedside, three hours before, he had then declared himself unable to move without pain, and had told me that the doctor had strictly forbidden him to get up. Yet, on that very same night, he had dined down below in the cheerful grill-room and, according to Dick, was as merry as ever.
These were facts which certainly required explanation.
Why had he not gone along to the Piccadilly Hotel, or to the Club, as was his habit? Was it because, fearing to be seen, he had chosen the smaller and quieter resort?
Most probably he feared to meet either Teddy or myself at the Piccadilly, for we both frequently went there as a change from the Automobile Club. We flying men are a small circle, and we have our own particular haunts—just as every other profession has.
Three times I had questioned Dick Ferguson regarding Lionel's presence at that small, but popular restaurant on that particular night. At first I believed that he had probably mistaken the date—which was so easy. But he had fixed it absolutely by telling me that it was the night when the Admiralty
