People began to arrive and questions were showered on Jim, who replied good-humouredly, and warned each newcomer not to come too near as he was about to start the engine again—a warning which was immediately emphasised by the throb of the engine itself, as Jackson tested the ignition.
"All right, sir."
Jim lit a cigarette, and taking a telegraph form from his pocket, wrote out a message to his Commanding Officer and handed it to Jackson.
"Send this off at once and go on to Exeter by train. Have the petrol ready there for me, and I'll pick you up at the place of which I told you."
Jim said this in a voice which could be heard by every one present. Then he climbed into his seat again.
"Stand back, please!" The crowd scattered, leaving a free run up the course. A minute later the monoplane was speeding away over the tree-tops and was soon lost to sight in the West.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SUCCESS.
Cranmere Pool! The most desolate spot on Dartmoor. Here rise seven rivers—born in the quaking morass, itself the result of the drainage of the giant tors which shut it in on every hand. A lonely spot encircled by the everlasting hills, without a road or cart-track—inaccessible, isolated. In summer visited by tourists who boast of having made the pilgrimage on the hardy little moorland ponies; in winter as solitary and forsaken as the Great Sahara itself.
Half a mile from the pool is a low, grassy plateau from which the hills slope upwards, and half-way up is the remains of a ruined house—the walls of which are only a few feet high, and are level with the ground in many places.