I sprang up. It did seem that Slingsby was getting at last to the heart of Peiffer's secret.
"We will now take steps," said Slingsby, and telegrams began to fly over the wires. In three days' time the answers trickled in.
An agent of Morano's had bought a German aeroplane in Lisbon. A German aviator was actually at the hotel there. Slingsby struck the table with his fist.
"What a fool I am!" he cried. "Give me a newspaper."
I handed him one of that morning's date. Slingsby turned it feverishly over, searching down the columns of the provincial news until he came to the heading "Portugal."
"Here it is!" he cried, and he read aloud. "'The great feature of the Festival week this year will be, of course, the aviation race from Villa Real to Seville. Amongst those who have entered machines is the Count Morano y Goltz.'"
He leaned back and lit a cigarette.
"We have got it! Morano's machine, driven by the German aviator, rises from the aerodrome at Villa Real in Portugal with the others, heads for Seville, drops behind, turns and makes a bee-line for the Rock, Peiffer having already arranged with Morano for signals to be made where bombs should be dropped. When is the race to be?"
I took the newspaper.
"Ten days from now."