He was standing on the slope of a small tor. At the foot there was a smooth stretch of green sward. It was on this stretch that the people of Dartmoor held their pony races in the summer months. There was no sign of horses; but only a great bat-like machine with out-stretched pinions of taut white canvas, and by that machine a man clad from head to foot in brown overalls.
John stumbled down the slope. As he neared the machine he stopped and gasped.
“Kara,” he said, and the brown man smiled.
“But, I do not understand. What are you going to do!” asked Lexman, when he had recovered from his surprise.
“I am going to take you to a place of safety,” said the other.
“I have no reason to be grateful to you, as yet, Kara,” breathed Lexman. “A word from you could have saved me.”
“I could not lie, my dear Lexman. And honestly, I had forgotten the existence of the letter; if that is what you are referring to, but I am trying to do what I can for you and for your wife.”
“My wife!”
“She is waiting for you,” said the other.
He turned his head, listening.