As a matter of fact, Mrs. Windlebird,
keen student of the illustrated press, had recognized Roland by his
photograph in the Daily Mirror. In the course of the twenty yards' walk
from house to tennis-lawn she had put her husband into possession of
the more salient points in Roland's history. It was when Mr. Windlebird
heard that Roland had forty thousand pounds in the bank that he sat up
and took notice.
"Lead me to him," he said simply.
Roland sneezed.
"Doe accident, thag you," he replied miserably. "Somethig's gone wrong
with the worgs, but it's nothing serious, worse luck."
M. Feriaud, having by this time adjusted the defect in his engine, rose
to his feet, and bowed.
"Excuse if we come down on your lawn. But not long do we trespass. See,
_mon ami_," he said radiantly to Roland, "all now O. K. We go on."
"No," said Roland decidedly.
"No? What you mean--no?"
A shade of alarm fell on M. Feriaud's weather-beaten features. The
eminent bird-man did not wish to part from Roland. Toward Roland he
felt like a brother, for Roland had notions about payment for little
aeroplane rides which bordered upon the princely.
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