His voice was steady and rang true.  The Master nodded approval, that seemed to echo round the room in a buzz of acceptance.  But there were still other questions to be asked.  The next one was: 

“How did you come here?  It’s obvious my man didn’t bring you up.”

“I came in my own plane, sir,” the stranger answered, in a dead hush of stillness.  “It just now landed on the roof of this building.  If you will draw the curtains, there behind you, I believe you can see it for yourself.”

“I heard no engine.”

“I volplaned in.  I don’t say this to boast sir, but I can handle the average plane as accurately as most men handle their own fingers.”

“Were you invited to attend this meeting by either Major Bohannan or by me?”

“No, sir, I was not.”

“Then, why are you here?”

“Why am I here?  For exactly the same reason that all the rest are here, sir!” The aviator swept his arm comprehensively at the ranks of eagerly listening men.  “To resume active service.  To get back to duty.  To live, again!  In short, to join this expedition and to share all its adventures!”

“Hm!  Either that, or to interfere with us.”

“Not the latter, sir!  I swear that!”

“How did you know there was going to be an expedition, at all?” demanded the Master, his brows tensed, lips hard, eyes very keen.  The aviator seemed smiling, as he answered: 

“I know many things.  Some may be useful to you all.  I am offering you my skill and knowledge, such as they may be, without any thought or hope of reward.”

“Why?”

“Because I am tired of life.  Because I want—­must have—­the freedom of the open roads, the inspiration of some great adventure!  Surely, you understand.”

“Yes, if what you say is true, and you are not a spy.  Show us your face, sir!”

The aviator loosened his helmet and removed it, disclosing a mass of dark hair, a well-shaped head and a vigorous neck.  Then he took off his goggles.

A kind of communal whisper of astonishment and hostility ran round the apartment.  The man’s whole face—­save for eyeholes through which dark pupils looked strangely out—­was covered by a close-fitting, flesh-colored celluloid mask.

This mask reached from the roots of his hair to his mouth.  It sloped away down the left jaw, and somewhat up the cheekbone of the right side.  The mask was firmly strapped in place around the head and neck.

“What does all this mean, sir?” demanded the Master, sharply.  “Why the mask?”

“Is that a necessary question, sir?” replied the aviator, while a buzz of curiosity and suspicion rose.  “You have seen many such during the war and since its close.”

“Badly disfigured, are you?”

“That word, ‘disfigured,’ does not describe it, sir.  Others have wounds, but my whole face is nothing but a wound.  No, let me put it more accurately—­there is, practically speaking, no face at all.  The gaping cavity that exists under this mask would certainly sicken the strongest men among you, and turn you against me.