"Right behind us, and coming this way. I believe it's going to land."
"The rotter!" ejaculated Kenneth. "I wonder if they have spotted us, and are suspicious."
There was no time to say more, for the aeroplane was now passing overhead at an altitude of about two hundred feet. The motor had been switched off, and the Taube was vol-planing towards the earth.
It descended clumsily, striking the ground with a terrific bump that demolished the wheels and landing-skids. Directly the Taube came to rest, the pilot alighted and waved frantically to the two supposed Uhlan motor-cyclists.
"I'll have to go," mumbled Kenneth, who had readjusted his bandage. "You stay here. Now, steady—let me help you. Remember you are badly wounded, yet you want to skip like a superanimated gazelle. That's better; let your arms trail helplessly."
Having placed Rollo in a dry, shallow ditch by the side of the path, Kenneth walked quickly towards the disabled Taube. Outwardly he was cool enough, but his heart was beating rapidly.
At ten paces from the observer he stopped, clicked his heels, and saluted in correct German fashion.
The flying-officer spoke rapidly, at the same time pointing in a westerly direction. Kenneth knew not a word of what he said, but replied by nodding his head and indicating his bandaged jaw.
The German scowled, then, turning to the pilot, spoke a few quick sentences. Kenneth's hand wandered to the butt-end of his revolver. It imparted a feeling of comparative security. Then, recollecting his rôle, he pulled himself together and stood rigidly at attention, at the same time ready, at the first sign of suspicion on the part of the airmen, to draw his weapon and blaze away.
Presently the pilot produced some sheets of paper and a buff calico envelope. The observer scribbled a few lines, sealed the missive, and held it towards the pseudo Uhlan.