He stepped inside the house immediately, halted when he caught sight of Wayland in his undress uniform, glanced involuntarily at his crutches and bandaged leg, cast a quick, penetrating glance right and left; then he spoke pleasantly in his hesitating, imperfect French—so oddly imperfect that Wayland could not understand him at all.
"Who are you?" he demanded in English.
The airman seemed astonished for an in[pg 80]stant, then a quick smile broke out on his ruddy features:
"I say, this is lucky! Fancy finding an Englishman here!—wherever this place may be." He laughed. "Of course I know I'm 'somewhere in France,' as the censor has it, but I'm hanged if I know where!"
"Come in and shut the door," said Wayland, reassured. Marie-Josephine closed the door. The aëronaut came forward, stood dripping a moment, then took the chair to which Wayland pointed, seating himself as though a trifle tired.
"Shot down," he explained, gaily. "An enemy submarine winged us out yonder somewhere. I tramped over these bally moors for hours before I found a sign of any path. A sheepwalk brought me here."
"You are lucky. There is only one house on these moors—this! Who are you?" asked Wayland.
"West—flight-lieutenant, 10th division, Cinque-Ports patrolling squadron."
"Good heavens, man! What are you doing in Finistère?"
"What!"