“I believe there is somebody in the plane,” Elizabeth said sharply. “Isn’t that someone in the front seat?”

“If there is, then your eyes are better than mine,” her father replied. “The pilot must have made a forced landing. We’ll drive round a bit and then cross to it.”

Nettlefold had to take care when negotiating the steep yet low bank to reach the ribbon of claypan, and then, because the machine was a little to the left, he drove the car along the firm level claypan strip until opposite the aeroplane, when he turned sharply out on to the lake bed.

The heavy car bumped over the tussock-grass butts, the open spaces between them covered with deep sand, and so eventually drew to within a few yards of the spick and span red-varnished monoplane.

Slightly above their level, a girl occupied the front seat. Her pose was perfectly natural. Her head was tilted forward as though she were interested in something lying on her lap. She was quite passive, as though absorbed by an exciting book. No one could be seen in the pilot’s cockpit.

“Good afternoon!” called Nettlefold.

The occupant of the monoplane offered no acknowledgment of the salute. She continued impassively to gaze down at her lap. She made no movement when he called again.

“It certainly is strange, Dad,” Elizabeth said uneasily.

“I agree with you. Wait here.”

John Nettlefold’s voice had acquired a metallic note. Alighting from the car, he walked towards the plane until his head became level with the edge of the front cockpit. He was then able to observe that the girl’s eyes were almost closed. She was not reading. She was asleep-or dead…