Suddenly the whole fabric tilted upwards, then with a barely perceptible jar and a strange sensation in the back of his neck, Dacres found himself on terra firma in the heart of the metropolis.
"We would have done it in forty-eight minutes, sir, if it hadn't been for that block," remarked Callaghan apologetically, as he opened the door. "You'll find me over by that pylon, sir. We are not allowed to wait here."
"Very good," replied Dacres, and feeling rather stiff in his lower limbs, hurried to the exit, called a taxi, and was soon bowling along towards Whitehall.
"I wish to see Commander Hythe," he announced to the petty-officer messenger on duty at the Admiralty.
The man consulted a register.
"I'm sorry, sir," he replied, "but Commander Hythe is not in the building. Mr. Wells is doing duty for him. Would you wish to see Mr. Wells sir?"
"I don't know the man," thought Dacres, "and I don't suppose he'll know me. In any case, he can tell me where Hythe is with more certainty than the messenger. Very well," he said. "I'll see Mr. Wells."
Much to his disgust Dacres had to cool his heels in a waiting-room for full twenty minutes until the official was at liberty to receive him.
Commander Hythe was on duty at Portsmouth, Dacres was informed. It was quite uncertain when he would return: it might be a matter of a few hours or it might be a couple of days.
"We've got to run down to Portsmouth, Callaghan," announced Dacres as he rejoined the monoplane. "Send a message to Mr. Whittinghame and explain that Commander Hythe is away on duty and that I am going to get in touch with him."