"Of course. And that road?——"
"But the village road, monsieur—what else?"
"And, Mademoiselle Elusive, what village may it be?"
"'Tis where the church is, monsieur; and every Sunday I go there to mass."
The pilot produced a pipe and, extracting a pouch, proceeded to fill it with tobacco.
"I am lost," he said complacently. "My compass was shot away, and the clouds are hanging too low for me to follow any landmarks."
He looked about at the steadily thickening twilight. "How far is it to the village?" he asked.
"Five kilometers—and a little better."
"The Devil!" He made a screen from the wind with the flap of his coat, and lighting his pipe, puffed it with evident satisfaction. "I shall have to leave the old 'bus' here. As a matter of fact, she's so nearly 'napoo' that I rather expected to come riding home on one plane, like the old woman with the broom. But, mademoiselle——"
"Monsieur?"