"A little more of that flying would have killed me," said Lemuel; and he was really looking rather pale. "Where are we?"

Simon told him.

"It's right off the map, and I'm afraid you won't get a train back to town to-night; but I know a very decent little pub we can stay at," he said.

"I'll phone for my chauffeur to come down," said Lemuel. "I suppose there's a telephone in this place somewhere?"

"I doubt it," said Simon; but he knew that there was.

Again, however, luck was with him. It was quite dark by the time the aëroplane had been pegged out with ropes obtained from a neighbouring farm, and a steady rain was falling, so that no one was about to watch the Saint climbing nimbly up a telegraph pole just beyond the end of the village street. . . .

Lemuel, who had departed to look up the post office, re joined him later in the bar of the Blue Dragon with a tale of woe.

"A telegraph pole must have been blown down," he said. "Anyway, it was impossible to get through."

Simon, who had merely cut the wires without doing any damage to the pole, nevertheless saw no reason to correct the official theory.

Inquiries about possible conveyance to the nearest main line town proved equally fruitless, as the Saint had known they would be. He had selected his village with care. It possessed nothing suitable for Mr. Lemuel, and no traffic was likely to pass through that night, for it was right off the beaten track.

"Looks as if we'll have to make the best of it, Old Man," said Lemuel, and Simon concurred.

After supper Lemuel's spirits rose, and they spent a convivial evening in the bar.

It was a very convivial evening. Mr. Lemuel, under the soothing influence of many brandies, forgot his day's misadventures, and embarked enthusiastically upon the process of making a night of it.