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The cab flew through Passy, crossed the Seine and reached the Issy-les-Moulineaux aviation ground in ten minutes. None of the aeroplanes was out, for there was a stiff breeze blowing. Don Luis ran to the sheds. The owners' names were written over the doors. "Davanne," he muttered. "That's the man I want." The door of the shed was open.
Davanne was ready. Don Luis climbed into the monoplane. The peasants pushed at the wheels. The machine started. "North-northeast," Don Luis ordered. "Ninety miles an hour. Ten thousand francs." "We've the wind against us," said Davanne. "Five thousand francs extra for the wind," shouted Don Luis. He admitted no obstacle in his haste to reach Damigni.
A short, stoutish man, with a long red face, was smoking a cigarette and watching some mechanics working at a monoplane. The little man was Davanne himself, the famous airman.
Somehow or other, by hanging on to invisible projections, by digging a knife which he had borrowed from Davanne into the interstices between the stones, he managed it.
"Les Ponts-de-Drive," agreed Davanne, who was quietly listening. "Very well. Suppose, on the other hand, that an aeroplane were to start from Issy-les-Moulineaux at eight o'clock in the morning and travel at the rate of sixty miles an hour, without stopping in four hours' time that is to say, at twelve o'clock it would reach Les Ponts-de-Drive at the exact same moment as the motor. Am I right?"
He lifted himself in his seat and gave Davanne his instructions: "Be careful," he said, "not to brush too close by them. They might put a bullet into us." Another minute passed. Suddenly they saw that, half a mile ahead, the road divided into three, thus forming a very wide open space which was still further extended by two triangular patches of grass where the three roads met.
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