"It certainly was a bit thick, sir," replied Derek, ignoring the latter part of the Brigadier's remarks, which so closely coincided with his own unspoken thoughts. "But it's all over now. Everything points to a good passage for the rest of the run."
The remainder of the flight turned out as Daventry had predicted. In a clear sky, and in the full blaze of the sunshine, the triplane, pelting along as fast as the skilled engineer knew how to make her go, was rapidly decreasing the distance between her and the rugged hills of northern Spain.
"Land right ahead!"
[Illustration: IT WAS A CASE OF TAKING ONE'S CHANCE WITH THE APPROACHING STORM]
This announcement, coming from the lips of one of the crew, roused Derek's failing energies, for, unprepared for the journey, and desperately hungry, he was beginning to feel the effects of mental and physical strain.
Low down to the south'ard he could discern a serrated range of hills, looming up dark-blue against the pale azure sky. Away to the westward the land terminated abruptly, although Derek thought he could distinguish more high ground beyond.
"Must be Cape Ortegal; and the other land is Cape Finisterre," he decided. "I'm only between ten to twenty miles out in my reckoning. Not bad for a first attempt."
Altering helm, Daventry made straight for the land that he supposed to be Cape Ortegal. Flying at two hundred miles an hour does not give a pilot much time to make up his mind. He must decide quickly and definitely.