Granet sauntered in to breakfast a few minutes late on the following
morning. A little volley of questions and exclamations reached him as he
stood by the sideboard.
“Heard about the Zeppelin raid?”
“They say there’s a bomb on the ninth green!”
“Market Burnham Hall is burnt to the ground!”
Granet sighed as he crossed the room and took his seat at the table.
“If you fellows hadn’t slept like oxen last night,” he remarked, “you’d
have known a lot more about it. I saw the whole show.”
“Nonsense!” Major Harrison exclaimed.
“Tell us all about it?” young Anselman begged.
“I heard the thing just as I was beginning to undress,” Granet
explained. “I rushed downstairs and found Collins out in the garden. ...
Where the devil is Collins, by-the-bye?”
They glanced at his vacant place.
“Not down yet. Go on.”
“Well, we could hear the vibration like anything, coming from over the
marsh there. I got the car out and we were no sooner on the road than I
could see it distinctly, right above us--a huge, cigar-shaped thing. We
raced along after it, along the road towards Market Burnham. Just before
it reached the Hall it seemed to turn inland and then come back again.
We pulled up to watch it and Collins jumped out. He said he’d go as far
as the Hall and warn them. I sat in the car, watching. She came right
round and seemed to hover over those queer sort of outbuildings there
are at Market Burnham. All at once the bombs began to drop.”
“What are they like?” Geoffrey Anselman exclaimed.
Granet poured out his coffee carefully.
“I’ve seen ‘em before--plenty of them, too,” he remarked, “but they did
rain them down. Then all of a sudden there was a sort of glare--I don’t
know what happened. It was just as though some one had lit one of those
coloured lights. The Hall was just as clearly visible as at noonday. I
could see the men running about, shouting, and the soldiers tumbling out
of their quarters. All the time the bombs were coming down like hail and
a corner of the Hall was in flames. Then the lighted stuff, whatever it
was, burnt out and the darkness seemed as black as pitch. I hung around
for some time, looking for Collins. Then I went up to the house to help
them extinguish the fire. I didn’t get back till four o’clock.”
“What about Collins?” young Anselman asked. “I was playing him at golf.”
“Better send up and see,” Granet proposed. “I waited till I couldn’t
stick it any longer.”
They sent a servant up. The reply came back quickly--Mr. Collins’ bed
had not been slept in. Granet frowned a little.
“I suppose he’ll think I let him down,” he said. “I waited at least an
hour for him.”
“Was any one hurt by the bombs?” Geoffrey Anselman inquired.
“No one seemed to be much the worse,” Granet replied. “I didn’t think
of anything of that sort in connection with Collins, though. Perhaps he
might have got hurt.”
“We’ll all go over and have a look for him this afternoon if he hasn’t
turned up,” Anselman suggested. “What about playing me a round of golf
this morning?”
“Suit me all right,” Granet agreed. “I’d meant to lay up because of my
arm, but it’s better this morning. We’ll start early and get back for
the papers.”
They motored down to the club-house and played their round. It was a
wonderful spring morning, with a soft west wind blowing from the land.
Little patches of sea lavender gave purple colour to the marshland.
The creeks, winding their way from the sea to the village, shone like
quicksilver beneath the vivid sunshine. It was a morning of utter and
complete peace. Granet notwithstanding a little trouble with his arm,
played carefully and well. When at last they reached the eighteenth
green, he holed a wonderful curly putt for the hole and the match.
“A great game,” his cousin declared, as they left the green. “Who the
devil are these fellows?”
There were two soldiers standing at the gate, and a military motor-car
drawn up by the side of the road. An orderly stepped forward and
addressed Granet.
“Captain Granet?” he asked, saluting.
Granet nodded and stretched out his hand for the note. The fingers which
drew it from the envelope were perfectly steady, he even lifted his
head for a moment to look at a lark just overhead. Yet the few hastily
scrawled lines were like a message of fate:--
The officer in command at Market Burnham Hall would be obliged if
Captain Granet would favour him with an immediate interview, with
reference to the events of last night.
“Do you mean that you want me to go at once, before luncheon?” he asked
the orderly.
The man pointed to the car.
“My instructions were to take you back at once, sir.”
“Come and have a drink first, at any rate,” Geoffrey Anselman insisted.
The orderly shook his head, the two soldiers were barring the gateway.
“Some one from the War Office has arrived and is waiting to speak to
Captain Granet,” he announced.
“We’re all coming over after lunch,” young Anselman protested. “Wouldn’t
that do?”
The man made no answer. Granet, with a shrug of the shoulders, stepped
into the motor-car. The two soldiers mounted motor-cycles and the little
cavalcade turned away. Granet made a few efforts at conversation
with his companion, but, meeting with no response, soon relapsed into
silence. In less than twenty minutes the car was slowing down before
the approach to the Hall. The lane was crowded with villagers and people
from the neighbouring farmhouses, who were all kept back, however, by a
little cordon of soldiers. Granet, closely attended by his escort, made
his way slowly into the avenue and up towards the house. A corner of the
left wing of the building was in ruins, blackened and still smouldering,
and there was a great hole in the sand-blown lawn, where a bomb had
apparently fallen. A soldier admitted them at the front entrance and his
guide led him across the hall and into a large room on the other side
of the house, an apartment which seemed to be half library, half
morning-room. Sir Meyville and a man in uniform were talking together
near the window. They turned around at Granet’s entrance and he gave
a little start. For the first time a thrill of fear chilled him, his
self-confidence was suddenly dissipated. The man who stood watching
him with cold scrutiny was the one man on earth whom he feared--Surgeon
Major Thomson.