“Oh God,” Goodheart groaned, and pounded a dial with his fist. I took that as his answer.

“Holmes,” I said into the dim interior. “If we are discovered, get the maharaja away. I’ll make my way to Hijarkot.” I slid down the wing to the macadamized ground before he could object.

The moon was brushing the western mountains, but I could see well enough to follow the smooth river of air strip that cut between the rough grassland on either side. I didn’t know just how much distance the aeroplane needed before it took to the air, but with four people on board, I decided to be conservative, and checked for sleeping bullocks all the way to the end. I found no bullocks, no living thing at all, but halfway back, there appeared to be some dark, tall shape near the machine’s left wing. I held up a hand to block the faint light from Goodheart’s cockpit torch, and it was still there. Not moving, and just the one, but it was the shape of a man.

I pulled the revolver from my pocket and crept forward, wishing there was something I might hide behind: If the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate him, it would betray me as well.

The man did nothing until I was perhaps fifty feet away. And then he spoke.

“I say, is there something on?”

“Who is it?” I demanded.

“Jack Merriam. Er, the pilot?”

I straightened. “Ex-RAF?”

“Right-o. Is the maharaja on one of his stunts?”

“You might say that.”

“You need me to turn on the runway lights?”

“That would be most excellent.”

“Happy to. I do wish he’d tell me when he’s planning one of these night jaunts of his. I wouldn’t have to turn out when I heard noises.”

“This was somewhat spur-of-the-moment. But I’ll mention it to him.”

“I don’t mean to complain. I’ll get the lights, won’t be a tick.”

When I tumbled back through the open door, I found Goodheart’s torch off.

“Who the hell was that?” he hissed.

“The pilot. He’s turning on the runway lights for us. Would that be helpful?”

“Helpful? I thought I’d be doing this by torchlight. Thank God for the Brits. Hope the fellow doesn’t get into trouble.”

“Too late to worry about that.”

True to his word, the pilot illuminated our abduction of his employer. The bank of lights flared on, one block at a time, glaring onto the clean, smooth surface. Our engine caught, the propeller began to turn, and Goodheart pointed its nose between the twin rows of spotlights and revved the engine. We began to move, then to bounce, and on one of the bounces we hesitated briefly, then rose.