Graves was talking casually to the fat man, describing the flight, when a loud exclamation and a sudden burst of conversation caused him to turn. The machine guns had been noted for the first time.
“You fly well armed,” said the tall, stooping Jew nastily. Every one else was silent, awaiting Graves’ reply.
“The ship is from Langham Field, where all the planes are equipped for bombing and other tests against battle-ships,” was the easy reply.
Hinkley, who had been wondering whether Graves would think of that excuse, smiled admiringly.
“Doesn’t miss many bets,” he told himself. The fat man’s careful geniality was suddenly gone. While the knot of men who were now clustered close to the rear cockpit of the ship engaged in further low-voiced conversation his little eyes roved from nose to tail of the ship, coming back to rest on Graves’ untroubled face.
The man who had gone to the cabin came back over the hill. Another man was with him—a powerfully built fellow who towered over his companion. Every one became suddenly silent, as they came nearer. Hinkley knew instinctively that this was Hayden.
His deeply lined, somewhat fleshy countenance could have served as a model for the face of a fallen angel. The wide, cruel mouth, high forehead and square jaw all indicated strength, and yet suffering and dissipation were graven there. His eyes, as he approached the ship, were in direct contrast to the rest of his face. They were large and bright—the eyes of a dreamer, and they almost succeeded in counteracting the cruel force of his face. Hinkley had a glimpse of the man’s magnetism in those eyes.
“How do you do, colonel?” he said quietly.
His voice was deep and rich. He removed the slouch hat he wore, revealing thick black hair sprinkled with gray. It strengthened the impression that he had Slav blood in him, for his complexion was dark and his eyes liquid black.
“We dropped in on you unwillingly, but we are fortunate to find people here. My name is Graves.”