"Here we are," said the stranger apologetically as they reached the door of a long rambling house. "We have not the convenience of electric light here, so I must strike a match and light the lamp."
These words were spoken in such a matter-of-fact way that Dacres could hardly realize that the speaker was one and the same as the daring airman who had stirred not only the United Kingdom but the whole of the civilized world.
Unhesitatingly Dacres followed his host into a plain but substantially furnished room, and when the lamp was turned up the former was able to discern the features of his companion.
The owner of the aircraft was the shorter by two inches. He was sparely built, yet his breadth and depth of chest betokened more than average strength. His limbs were long in comparison to his body, while the long, tapering fingers indicated an artistic temperament. His face was oval, and of a deep tanned colour, his eyes were grey and evenly set beneath a pair of heavy brows. His hair was brown in hue and neatly parted in the centre, giving him at first sight a slightly effeminate appearance. Dacres guessed his age to be about twenty-five.
His dress consisted of a brown Norfolk suit and riding breeches, box gaiters and brown boots. Round his neck was a dark green muffler. His golf-cap and doeskin gloves he tossed upon the table.
"Now we can discuss this little matter, Mr.——?" He raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
"Dacres is my name—Basil Dacres."
"Ah! Any relation of Colonel Dacres, my nearest neighbour?" he asked. "His son? That's quite a coincidence. I owe the Colonel a duty call, but I have been so excessively busy of late that I really haven't had time. By the by, my name's Whittinghame—Vaughan Whittinghame. I don't suppose for one moment that you've heard of me before."
"I have reason to dispute that," said Dacres.
"Well, then, as an individual you might, but as far as the name is concerned——"