“True.” De Richleau took a rough measure with his pencil. “But that is nearly eighteen hundred miles. Surely we cannot cover so great a distance?”
“Not in one hop,” Rex agreed.
“I hardly think we can hope to land, find petrol, and proceed again. All air-parks are naturally barred to us.”
“That’s a fact. Where’s the nearest frontier?”
“Mongolia.” The Duke put his finger on a yellow patch. “Just under a thousand miles.”
“I reckon I ought to be able to make that. I’ve done London to Cannes in one hop before now. That’s over six hundred miles.”
“But Mongolia,” said the Duke, “is a terrible place. We should land somewhere to the north of the great desert of Gobi, free from our enemies, perhaps, but faced with starvation and thirst in a barren land.”
“India,” suggested Simon. “That’s British.”
“Fifteen hundred miles, my friend; besides we could not fly the Himalayas, and even if we could we should probably be shot by the tribesmen on the other side.”
“What of Finland?” said Marie Lou. “That looks to be nearer — thirteen hundred miles, perhaps?”