“Unless what?”
“Unless we make no stop in London—or fly faster. But say!” he exclaimed suddenly, “How’d you figure there’s a mistake? How’d you know it’s eleven hundred and sixty miles to Fogo? I checked those figures. If the distances are right you can bet it’s nine hundred and ninety-two miles.”
“Did you ever calculate the distance from New York to London on a great circle?”
“Sure. It’s three thousand two hundred and eighteen and one-tenth miles.”
“That was by latitude and longitude, wasn’t it?”
“Certainly.”
“What did the same kind of calculation give you between Fogo and London?”
“Two thousand, fifty-eight and one-tenth miles,” answered Alan, the figures at his tongue’s end.
“The difference is eleven hundred and sixty miles. That’s the distance Fogo is from New York. The chart shows nine hundred and ninety-two miles. Where’d you get those figures?”
Alan indicated to Roy to take the wheel. Stepping to the table and sailing chart he studied the latter some minutes. When he arose he noticed that a mist was perceptible even in the pilot room. As he resumed his place at the wheel he growled: