With his goggles swinging lightly from the finger of his left hand, Biggles, with Algy at his side, walked slowly along the tarmac of the sun-scorched aerodrome at Heliopolis to where the “Vandal,” with Smyth standing by the propeller, rested in the shade of a hangar, in readiness for the trip to Benghazi, the next port of call on their homeward journey.
Before they reached the machine, however, their attention was attracted to a mechanic hurrying towards them.
“Looking for us, or I’m a Dutchman,” observed Biggles curiously. “I wonder what he wants?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but will you please have a word with Colonel Grivin; he’s waiting in the office.”
“What office?”
“The Nile and North African Aviation Company, sir.”
Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Lead on; we’ll follow,” he said.
A tall
