"Inside, old man; this is my show!" and before the bewildered pilot could finish his exclamation, he was inside and Tim was with him and the door closed.
"Where to?" asked the cripple.
Dastral gave the directions, and told the driver to do his utmost to get them there within an hour, or it would be too late.
Within ten seconds they were whizzing away through the darkness in the direction of the Great North Road, and as there was very little traffic about, they reached their destination within three quarters of an hour. It was not a minute too soon. They had seen the searchlights at work on their way north, and towards the end of their journey they had several times heard the anti-aircraft guns blazing away at something up in the clouds.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came the challenge as they reached the turning which left the main road, and finished at the aerodrome.
The vehicle halted abruptly, for the driver had seen the flash of the barrel of a Smith & Weston revolver, which the air-mechanic on sentry-go held out to bar their progress.
"Flight-Commander of the Royal Flying Corps," shouted the pilot, hoping that would allow him to pass, and to get on to the aerodrome immediately, but the sentry was obdurate.
"Let me see your permit, sir," he asked.
"Haven't got one."
"Turn out guard!" shouted the sentry, and turning to the newcomers, he added: