MR. MARK MARX.
“I think we’ll have to give her another dope, Collins,” remarked Ronnie
Pryor, as early one summer’s morning he stood before “The Hornet,”
which, after a night-flight to the sea and back, was reposing in its
“nest.”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt her, sir, especially if we can get some of
that new patent stuff that Mr. Henderson was telling us about the other
day,” the young mechanic replied.
“Ah! That’s a secret,” laughed his master. “It’s no doubt the finest
dope ever invented, and happily Fritz, with all his scientific
attainments, is still in the dark regarding it.”
“I’m afraid the enemy will learn the secret before long, sir,” the
man remarked. “There are far too many strangers knocking about the
aerodromes, and prying into everyone’s business.”
“I know, Collins, I know,” remarked Ronnie. “They’re very inquisitive
regarding my new silencer.”
“Yes, that’s quite right, sir. I’m often being pumped about it by
strangers.”
“Well, I know you never utter a word concerning it.”
“Trust me, sir,” laughed the clean-shaven young man. “I always deny
any knowledge of it. But the people who make the inquiries seem very
shrewd indeed. And the funny thing is that they are never foreigners.”
“Yes, I quite realise that. But at all hazards we must keep the secret
of the silencer to ourselves,” said Pryor. “The silencer enables us to
make night-flights in secret without the enemy being any the wiser,” he
added.
Collins grinned. He knew, only too well, how “The Hornet” had, more
than once, been over to Belgium and returned in safety without its
presence being spotted by the enemy. He knew, too, that the bomb-rack
had been full when Ronnie and Beryl Gaselee had ascended, and that it
had been empty when they had returned.
On the previous night Pryor had been up, accompanied by his mechanic.
They had come in at daybreak, snatched three hours’ sleep, and were now
out again overhauling the machine.
As they were speaking, Beryl Gaselee, dainty and fair-haired, in a
cool, white cotton dress, suddenly came up behind them exclaiming:
“Good-morning, Ronnie! Iris is waiting breakfast patiently for you.”
“Oh, I really forgot, dear!” replied the young airman. “Collins and I
have been so busy for the last hour.”
Together they crossed the lawn arm-in-arm to the pleasant, old-world
house.
When ten minutes later the pair sat down to breakfast in the sunlit
dining-room, the long windows of which led out upon an ancient terrace
embowered with roses, Mrs. Remington came in, greeting Ronald with the
protest--
“I wish, when you come in, you’d put your silencer on your boots,
Ronnie! You woke me up just at four, and Toby started to bark.”
“By Jove! Did I? Lots of apologies! I’ll creep about in my socks in
future,” declared the culprit, stooping to pat the miniature “pom.”
“Did Sheppard give you the telephone message?” Mrs. Remington asked.
“No. What message?”
“Why, one that came in the middle of the night?”
At that moment Sheppard, the old-fashioned butler who had just entered
the room, interrupted, saying in his quiet way:
“I haven’t seen Mr. Pryor before, madam.” Then turning to Ronnie, he
said: “The telephone rang at about a quarter to one. I answered it.
Somebody--a man’s voice--was speaking from Liverpool. He wanted you,
sir. But I said you were out. He told me to give you a message,” and he
handed Ronnie a slip of paper upon which were pencilled the words:
_“Please tell Mr. Ronald Pryor that Mark Marx has returned. He will
be in London at the old place at ten o’clock to-night.”_
As Ronald Pryor’s eyes fell upon that message all the light died from
his face.
Beryl noticed it, and asked her lover whether he had received bad news.
He started. Then, recovering himself instantly, he held his breath for
a second, and replied:
“Not at all, dear. It is only from a friend--a man whom I believed had
been killed, but who is well and back again in England.”
“There must be many such cases,” the fair-haired girl remarked. “I
heard of one the other day when a man reported dead a year ago, and for
whom his widow was mourning, suddenly walked into his own drawing-room.”
“I hope his return was not unwelcome?” said Ronnie with a laugh.
“It would have been a trifle awkward, for example, if the widow had
re-married in the meantime.”
“Yes, rather a queer situation--at least, for the second husband,”
declared Iris, who was some five years Beryl’s senior, and the mother
of two pretty children.
“Did the person who spoke to you give any name?” asked Pryor of the
butler.
“No, sir. He would give no name. He simply said that you would quite
understand, sir.”
Ronald Pryor did understand. Mark Marx was back again in England! It
seemed incredible. But whose was that voice which in the night had
warned him from Liverpool?
He ate his breakfast wondering. Should he tell Beryl? Should he reveal
the whole curious truth to her? No. If he did so, she might become
nervous and apprehensive. Why shake the nerves of a woman who did such
fine work in the air? It would be best for him to keep his own counsel.
Therefore, before he rose from the table, he had resolved to retain the
secret of Marx’s return.
After breakfast Ronald, having taken from “The Hornet” the essential
parts of his newly invented silencer, which, by the way, he daily
expected would be adopted by the Government, carried them back to
the house and there locked them in the big safe which he kept in his
bedroom.
Then, later on, Beryl drove him to the station where he took train to
London, and travelled down to his aeroplane factory, where, in secret,
several big battleplanes of “The Hornet” type were being constructed.
It was a large, imposing place with many sheds and workshops, occupying
a considerable area. The whole place was surrounded by a high wall,
and, beyond, a barbed-wire entanglement, for the secrets of the work in
progress were well guarded by trusty, armed watchmen night and day.
Pryor was seated in his office chatting with Mr. Woodhouse, the
wide-awake and active manager, about certain business matters, when he
suddenly said:
“By the way, it will be best to double all precautions against any
information leaking out from here, and on no account to admit any
strangers upon any pretext whatever. Even if any fresh Government
viewer comes along he is not to enter until you have verified his
identity-pass.”
“Very well,” was Woodhouse’s reply. “But why are we to be so very
particular?”
“Well, I have my own reasons. Without doubt, our friend the enemy is
extremely anxious to obtain the secrets of ‘The Hornet,’ and also the
silencer. And in these days we must run no risks.”
Then, after a stroll through the sheds where a hundred or so men were
at work upon the various parts of the new battleplane destined to
“strafe” the Huns, and clear the air of the Fokkers, the easy-going but
intrepid airman made his way back to Pall Mall, where he ate an early
dinner alone in the big upstairs dining-room at the Royal Automobile
Club.
By half-past seven he had smoked the post-prandial cigarette, swallowed
a tiny glass of Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge, and was strolling back
along Pall Mall towards Charing Cross.
At the corner of the Haymarket he hailed a passing taxi, and drove out
to Hammersmith to a small, dingy house situated in a side-turning off
the busy King Street. There he dismissed the conveyance, and entered
the house with a latch-key.
“Cranch!” he shouted when in the small, close-smelling hall, having
closed the door behind him. “Cranch! Are you at home?”
“Hullo! Is that you, Mr. Pryor?” came a cheery answer, when from the
back room on the ground-floor emerged a burly, close-shaven man in his
shirt-sleeves, for it was a hot, breathless night.
“Yes. I’m quite a stranger, am I not?” laughed Pryor, following his
host back into the cheaply furnished sitting-room.
“Look here, Cranch, I’m going out on a funny expedition to-night,” he
said. “I want you to fit me up with the proper togs for the Walworth
Road. You know the best rig-out. And I want you to come with me.”
“Certainly, Mr. Pryor,” was his host’s reply. John Cranch had done his
twenty-five years in the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland
Yard as sergeant and inspector, and now amplified his pension by doing
private inquiry work. He was “on the list” at the Yard, and to persons
who went to the police headquarters to seek unofficial assistance his
name was frequently given as a very reliable officer.
The pair sat for some time in earnest consultation, after which both
ascended to a bedroom above, where, in the cupboard, hung many suits of
clothes, from the rags of a tramp--with broken boots to match--to the
smart evening clothes of the prosperous middle-aged _roué_ who might
be seen at supper at the Savoy, or haunting the nightclubs of London.
Among them were the uniforms of a postman, a railway-porter, with caps
belonging to the various companies, a fireman, a private soldier, a
lieutenant, a gas-inspector, a tram-conductor, and other guises which
ex-detective John Cranch had, from time to time, assumed.
Within half-an-hour the pair again descended, and entering the
sitting-room they presented quite a different appearance.
Ronnie Pryor’s most intimate friend would certainly not easily have
recognised him. Even Beryl Gaselee would have passed him by in the
street without a second glance, for his features were altered; he wore
a small moustache, and his clothes were those of an East-end Jew. At
the same time Cranch was dressed as a hard-working costermonger of the
true Old Kent Road type.
Together they drove in a taxi across South London to the railway-arch
at Walworth Road station, beneath which they alighted and, turning to
the right along the Camberwell Road, crossed it and went leisurely
into the Albany Road--that long, straight thoroughfare of dingy
old-fashioned houses which were pleasant residences in the “forties”
when Camberwell was still a rural village--the road which ran direct
from Camberwell Gate to the Old Kent Road.
Darkness had already fallen as the pair strolled leisurely along until
they passed a small house on the left, close to the corner of Villa
Street.
As they went by, their eyes took in every detail. Not a large house,
but rather superior to its neighbours, it lay back behind a small
garden and seemed closely shuttered and obscure. Nearly opposite it
Cranch’s sharp eyes espied a “To Let” board upon a house, and he at
once suggested that if they hid behind the railing they could watch the
house of mystery in security.
This they did, and after a little manoeuvring--for there were many
people passing in the vicinity--they both crouched beneath a soot-laden
lilac-bush, which commanded full view of all who went from and came to
the dark house before them.
As Ronnie crouched there in concealment one thought alone kept running
through his brain. Truth to tell, he was much mystified as to the
identity of that mysterious person who, from Liverpool, had given him
warning.
Was it a trap? He had certainly not overlooked such a contingency.
For over an hour and a half the two men remained there, eagerly
watching the diminishing stream of foot-passengers until at last,
coming up from the Camberwell Road, Ronnie noticed a man approaching.
For some seconds he kept his eye steadily upon him, for the moon was
now shining fitfully through the clouds.
“By Jove! How curious!” he whispered to his companion. “Why, that’s
Knowles, one of the mechanics at Hendon! I wonder what he’s doing over
here?”
Ronnie was, of course, in ignorance--as was also everyone at the Hendon
Aerodrome--that Henry Knowles, the hard-working, painstaking mechanic,
whose expert work it was to test machines, was not really an Englishman
as he pretended to be, even though he could imitate the Cockney tongue,
but that his actual baptismal name was Hermann Klitz, and his place of
birth Coblenz, on the Rhine.
With wondering eyes the airman watched the mechanic pass into the dark,
silent house.
“Very strange!” he remarked beneath his breath. “Very strange indeed!”
But his curiosity was increased by the arrival, ten minutes later, of a
rather short, middle-aged man of distinctly burly build. The newcomer
hesitated for a few minutes, gazing about him furtively, as though he
feared being followed, and then slipped through the gate up to the
house, where the door fell open, he being apparently expected.
“Did you see that man, Cranch?” asked Pryor in a whisper. “That’s
Germany’s great spy--Mark Marx. He’s been in America for the past ten
months or so, and is now back here upon some secret mission concerning
our aircraft--upon which he’s an expert.”
“They’re holding a council here--by the look of it,” remarked the
detective. “Five of them have gone in--and why, look! Here comes
another--a lame man!”
“Yes,” said Ronnie. “This secret place of meeting is known to the
spies of Germany as ‘Number Three.’ From here certain of the clever
activities of the invisible hand of Germany are frequently directed,
as from other centres; Mark Marx is a clever adventurer who used to
be the assistant director of the enemy’s operations in this country.
Apparently he has returned to London to resume his sinister activities
against us. He acts directly under the control of the head of Germany’s
secret service in this country, that shrewd, clever, and influential
person who hides his identity beneath the official description of
‘Number Seven.’”
“Then ‘Number Three’ is the headquarters of ‘Number Seven’--eh!” asked
the ex-detective in a whisper.
“Exactly. That some devilish conspiracy is now afoot is quite certain.
Our duty is to discover and to thwart it. I was secretly warned that
Mark Marx had returned, and now, knowing that it is so, I must take
adequate precautions.”
“How shall you act?”
“I have not yet decided.”
“But can’t we endeavour to ascertain what is in progress here to-night,
Mr. Pryor?” suggested Cranch.
Pryor and his companion kept vigilant watch till far into the night
when, about two o’clock in the morning, a big closed motor-car suddenly
came along the road, pulling up a little distance from the house. The
driver, a tall, thin man, alighted and waited for some moments, when
the two men, Marx and Klitz, _alias_ Knowles, emerged carrying between
them a small but heavy leather travelling trunk and, assisted by the
driver, placed this on top of the car. Then the two men entered and
drove rapidly away.
“That car may come again to-morrow night,” remarked Pryor. “We must lay
our plans to follow it.”
Next night, Pryor having ascertained the identity of the friend who had
warned him of Mark Marx’s return to England, he and Cranch were again
at the same spot beneath the stunted lilac-bush. Round the corner, in
Villa Street, at a little distance away stood Ronnie’s closed car with
Beryl Gaselee in charge, the latter wearing the cap and dust-coat of a
war-time _chauffeuse_.
Hour after hour they waited until dawn broke. But as no one came to
that house known as “Number Three,” they were compelled at last to
relinquish their vigilance.
For four nights in succession they kept the same watch, Cranch having
revealed his identity and explained to the constable on duty that the
car was awaiting an expected friend.
On the fifth occasion, just about half-past one in the morning, sure
enough the big, dark-green car drove up, and from it Marx alighted and
entered the enemy’s headquarters.
Presently Klitz and another man arrived on foot, and they also entered.
Subsequently another small but heavy trunk was taken out and placed in
the car.
By this time Ronnie and his companion had reached their own car, and
while Cranch and Beryl entered, Ronnie jumped up to the wheel and
started off. He first took a street that he knew ran parallel with the
Albany Road in the direction the car had taken before and, after going
a little distance, he turned back into the thoroughfare just in time to
see a rear-lamp pass rapidly. Quickly he increased his speed, and soon
satisfied himself that it was the car he intended following.
They turned at last into the Old Kent Road, and then on as far as a
dark little place which Ronnie knew as Kingsdown. Then, branching to
the right, keeping the red rear-light ever in view, they went by the
byways as far as Meopham and on past Jenkin’s Court, through some woods
until suddenly the car turned into a gateway and went across some open
pastures.
Ronnie saw that he had not been noticed by the driver, who was too
intent upon his speed and quite unsuspicious. Therefore he pulled up
dead, waited for ten minutes or so, and then flew past the gateway at
top speed. For nearly a mile he went, and at last came to a standstill
upon a long, steep slope with a copse on each side, quite dark on
account of the overhanging trees.
Having run the car to the side of the road they alighted. Ronnie
switched off the lamps, and they walked noiselessly back on the grass
by the roadside and at length, having turned in at the gateway, saw, in
the dim light, a long, low-built farmhouse with haystacks beside it and
big barns.
The throb of the car’s engine showed that the Germans were probably
only depositing the trunk, and did not intend to remain.
The watchers, therefore, withdrew again into the shadow of a narrow
little wood close to the house and there waited in patience. Their
expectations were realised a quarter of an hour later when the two men
emerged from the modern-built farmhouse and drove away, evidently on
their return to London.
By their manoeuvre Pryor became greatly puzzled. He could not see why
that trunk had been transferred to that lonely farm in the night hours.
After the car had disappeared they waited in motionless silence for
some time until, after a whispered consultation, they ventured forth
again.
Cranch’s suggestion was to examine the place, but unfortunately a
collie was roaming about, and as soon as they came forth from their
place of concealment the dog gave his alarm note.
“Ben!” cried a gruff, male voice in rebuke, while at the same time a
light showed in the upper window of the farm.
Meanwhile the trio of watchers remained hidden in the shadow of a wall
close to the spacious farmyard until the dog had gone back.
Ronnie had resolved to leave the investigation until the following day,
therefore all three crept back to the car and, after carefully noting
the exact spot and the silhouette of the trees, they at last started
off and presently finding a high road, ran down into Wrotham, and on
into the long town of Tonbridge.
At the hotel their advent at such an early hour was looked upon
askance, but a well-concocted story of a night journey and unfortunate
tyre trouble allayed any suspicions, and by seven o’clock the three
were seated at an ample breakfast with home-cured ham and farmyard
eggs. Afterwards, for several hours, Beryl rested while the airman and
the detective wandered about the little Kentish town discussing their
plans.
When, at eleven o’clock, Ronnie met Beryl again downstairs, the trio
went into one of the sitting-rooms where they held secret council.
“Now,” exclaimed Ronnie, “my plan is this. I’ll run back alone to the
farm and stroll around the place to reconnoitre and ascertain who lives
there. Without a doubt they are agents of Germany, whoever they are,
because it is a depôt for those mysterious trunks from ‘Number Three.’”
“I wonder what they contain, dear?” Beryl said, her face full of
keenest interest.
“We shall ascertain, never fear. But we must remain patient, and work
in strictest secrecy.”
“Well, Mr. Pryor, you can play the police game as well as any of us,”
declared Cranch, with a light laugh.
Therefore, a quarter of an hour later, Pryor took the car and returning
to a spot near the farm--which he afterwards found was called
Chandler’s Farm--and running the car into a meadow, left it while he
went forward to reconnoitre.
As he approached, he noticed two men working in a field close by,
therefore he had to exercise great care not to be detected. By a
circuitous route he at last approached the place, finding it, in
daylight, to be a very modern up-to-date establishment--evidently the
dairy farm of some estate, for the outbuildings and barns were all new,
and of red brick, with corrugated iron roofs.
The farmhouse itself was a big, pleasant place situated on a hill,
surrounded by a large, well-kept flower-garden, and commanding a wide
view across Kent towards the Thames Estuary and the coast.
And as Ronnie crept along the belt of trees, his shrewd gaze taking in
everything, there passed from the house across the farmyard a tall man
in mechanic’s blue overalls. He walked a trifle lame, and by his gait
Pryor felt certain that he was one of the men who had been present at
that mysterious house called “Number Three” a few nights before.
But why should he wear mechanic’s overalls, unless he attended to some
agricultural machinery at work on the farm?
Only half-satisfied with the result of his observations, Ronnie
returned at length to his companions, when it was resolved to set
watch both at Albany Road and at Chandler’s Farm. With that object
Pryor later that day telegraphed to Collins calling him to London from
Harbury, and after meeting him introduced him to the ex-detective.
Then that night the two men went to Albany Road, while Ronnie and Beryl
returned in the car back into Kent, where soon after ten o’clock they
were hiding on the edge of the little wood whence there was afforded a
good view of the approach to the lonely farm.
Time passed very slowly; they dared not speak above a whisper. The
night was dull and overcast, with threatening rain, but all was silent
save for the howling of a dog at intervals and the striking of a
distant church clock.
Far across the valley in the darkness of the sky behind the hill could
be seen the flicker of an anti-aircraft searchlight somewhere in the
far distance, in readiness for any aerial raid on the part of the Huns.
“I can’t think what can be in progress here, Beryl,” Ronnie was
whispering. “What, I wonder, do those trunks contain?”
“That’s what we must discover, dear,” was the girl’s soft reply as, in
the darkness, his strong hand closed over hers and he drew her fondly
to his breast.
A dim light still showed in one of the lower windows of the farmhouse,
though it was now long past midnight.
Was the arrival of someone expected? It certainly seemed so, because
just at two o’clock the door opened and the form of the lame man became
silhouetted against the light. For a moment he came forth and peered
into the darkness. Then he re-entered and ten minutes later the light,
extinguished below, reappeared at one of the bedroom windows, showing
that the inmate had retired.
For six nights the same ceaseless vigil was kept, but without anything
abnormal transpiring. The man Marx had not again visited the
mysterious house in Albany Road, yet the fact that the obscured light
showed nightly in the window of Chandler’s Farm, made it apparent that
some midnight visitor was expected. For that reason alone Ronnie did
not relinquish his vigilance.
One night he was creeping with Beryl towards the spot where they spent
so many silent hours, and had taken a shorter cut across the corner
of a big grass-field when, of a sudden, his well-beloved stumbled and
almost fell. Afterwards, on groping about, he discovered an insulated
electric wire lying along the ground.
“That’s curious,” he whispered. “Is this a telephone, I wonder?”
Fearing to switch on his torch, he felt by the touch that it was a twin
wire twisted very much like a telephone-lead.
At the same moment, as they stood together in the corner of the field,
Beryl sniffed, exclaiming:
“What a very strong smell of petrol!”
Her lover held his nose in the air, and declared that he, too, could
detect it, the two discoveries puzzling them considerably. Indeed, in
the succeeding hours as they watched together in silence, both tried to
account for the existence of that secret twisted wire. Whence did it
come, and whither did it lead?
“I’ll investigate it as soon as it gets light,” Ronnie declared.
Just before two o’clock the silence was broken by the distant hum of an
aeroplane. Both detected it at the same instant.
“Hullo! One of our boys doing a night stunt?” remarked Ronnie,
straining his eyes into the darkness, but failing to see the oncoming
machine. Away across the hills a long, white beam began to search the
sky and, having found the machine and revealed the rings upon it, at
once shut off again.
Meanwhile, as it approached, the door of Chandler’s Farm was opened by
the tall, lame man, who stood outside until the machine, by its noise,
was almost over them. Then to the amazement of the watchers, four
points of light suddenly appeared at the corners of the grass-field on
their left.
“By Jove! Why, he’s coming down!” cried Ronnie astounded. “There was
petrol placed at each corner yonder, and it’s simultaneously been
ignited by means of the electric wire to show him his landing-place!
It’s an enemy machine got up to look like one of ours! This _is_ a
discovery!”
“So it is!” gasped Beryl, standing at her lover’s side, listening to
the aeroplane, unseen in the darkness, as it hovered around the farm
and slowly descended.
The man at the farm had brought out a blue lamp and was showing it
upward.
“Look!” exclaimed Pryor. “He’s telling him the direction of the wind--a
pretty cute arrangement, and no mistake!”
Lower and lower came the mysterious aeroplane until it skimmed the tops
of the trees in the wood in which they stood, then, making a tour of
the field, it at last came lightly to earth within the square marked by
the little cups of burning petrol.
The pilot stopped his engine, the four lights burnt dim and went out
one after the other, and the lame man, hurrying down, gave a low
whistle which was immediately answered.
Then, on their way back to the farm, the pair passed close to
where the watchers were hidden, and in the silence the latter could
distinctly hear them speaking--eagerly and excitedly in German!
Beryl and Ronnie watched there until dawn, when they saw the two men
wheel the monoplane, disguised as British with rings upon it, into the
long shed at the bottom of the meadow, the door of which the lame man
afterwards securely locked.
An hour later Pryor was speaking on the telephone with Cranch in
London, telling him what they had discovered. Soon after midday Beryl
and Ronnie were back at Harbury, where in the library window they stood
in consultation.
“Look here, Beryl,” the keen-faced young man said, “as that machine has
crossed from Belgium, it is undoubtedly going back again. If so, it
will take something with it--something which no doubt the enemy wants
to send out of the country by secret means.”
“With that I quite agree, dear.”
“Good. Then there’s no time to be lost,” her lover said, poring over
a map. “We’ll fly over to Chandler’s Farm this afternoon, come down
near Fawkham, and put the ’bus away till to-night. Then we’ll see what
happens.”
“He’ll probably fly back to-night,” the girl suggested.
“That’s exactly what I expect. I’ve told Collins and Cranch to meet us
there.”
An hour later the great battleplane, “The Hornet,” Ronnie at the
joy-stick, with Beryl in air-woman’s clothes and goggles strapped in
the observer’s seat, rose with a roar from the big meadow at Harbury
and, ascending to an altitude of about ten thousand feet, struck away
due south across the patchwork of brown fields and green meadows, with
their tiny clusters of houses and white puffs of smoke all blowing
in the same direction--the usual panorama of rural England, with its
straight lines of rails and winding roads, as seen from the air.
The roar of the powerful twin engines was such that they found
conversation impossible, but Beryl, practised pilot that she was, soon
recognised the town over which they were flying.
Soon afterwards the Thames, half-hidden in mist and winding like a
ribbon, came into view far below them. This served as guide, for Ronnie
kept over the river for some time, at the end of which both recognised
three church spires and knew that the most distant one was that of
Fawkham, where presently they came down in a field about half-way
between the station and the village, creating considerable sensation
among the cottagers in the neighbourhood.
Collins, who was awaiting them near the station, soon arrived on foot
to render them assistance, the ’bus being eventually put beneath a
convenient shed used for the shacking of hay.
Ronnie had not used the silencer, fearing to create undue excitement
among the anti-aircraft boys, many of whom had, of course, watched the
machine’s flight at various points, examining it through glasses and
being reassured by its painted rings.
Until night fell the lovers remained at Fawkham, taking their evening
meal in a small inn there, and wondering what Cranch had seen during
the daylight vigil he had kept since noon. Collins had left them in
order to go on ahead.
As dusk deepened into night both Pryor and his well-beloved grew more
excited. The discovery they had made was certainly an amazing one, but
the intentions of the enemy were still enveloped in mystery.
That something desperate was to be attempted was, however, quite plain.
In eagerness they remained until night had fallen completely, then,
leaving the inn, they returned to the farmer’s shed, and, wheeling
forth the powerful machine, got in and, having bidden the astonished
farmer good-night, Ronnie put on the silencer, started the engines, and
next moment, rising almost noiselessly, made a wide circle in the air.
Taking his bearings with some difficulty, he headed for a small, open
common, which they both knew well, situated about a quarter of a mile
from Chandler’s Farm.
There, with hardly any noise, they made a safe descent. Scarcely had
the pilot switched off the engines, when the faithful Collins appeared
with the news that Marx and the man Knowles had arrived from London in
the car at seven o’clock.
Presently, when Collins had been left in charge of the ’bus, and
Ronnie and Beryl had stolen up to where Cranch was waiting, the latter
whispered that Marx and Knowles had both accompanied the German pilot
down to the shed wherein the disguised machine was reposing. “They’re
all three down there now,” added the ex-detective.
“Did they bring anything in the car?”
“Yes. Half-a-dozen cans of petrol. They’ve just taken them down to the
shed.”
And even as he replied they could hear the voices of the three
returning. They were conversing merrily in German.
Another long, watchful hour went by, and the darkness increased.
“If he’s going over to Belgium it will take him about an hour and
three-quarters to reach Zeebrugge--for that’s where he probably came
from,” remarked the expert Pryor. “It’s light now at four, so he’ll go
up before two, or not at all.”
“He would hardly risk being caught at sea in daylight,” declared Beryl.
Then, for a long time, there was silence, the eyes of all three being
fixed upon the door of the farm until, of a sudden, it opened and the
lame man and the enemy pilot were seen to emerge carrying between them
one of the old leather trunks that had been brought from London.
“Hullo! They’re going to take it across by air!” cried Pryor. “It must
contain something which ought to remain in this country!”
They watched the trunk being carried in silence away into the darkness
to the shed. Then presently the two men returned and brought out the
second trunk, which they carried to the same spot as the first.
“H’m!” remarked Ronnie, beneath his breath. “A devilish clever game--no
doubt!”
Then, instructing Cranch to remain and watch, he led Beryl back to
where “The Hornet” stood.
Into the observer’s seat he strapped the girl, and, hopping in himself,
whispered to Collins to get all ready.
The engine was started; but it made no sound greater than a silent
motor-car when standing.
Ronnie and Beryl strained their ears to listen for the sound of the
engine of the enemy ’plane.
Those moments were full of breathless tension and excitement. “The
Hornet” was waiting to rise.
Suddenly there was a loud sound of uneven motor explosions in the
direction of the farm. The engine was firing badly. In a few moments,
however, it was rectified, and the loud and increasing hum told Ronnie
that the enemy had risen.
“Stand clear,” he shouted to Collins, and then, as he pulled over the
lever, “The Hornet” dashed forward and was soon rising rapidly, but in
silence.
So dark was it that he could not distinguish the enemy. Yet, heading
for the coast, as he knew that was the direction the German had taken,
he rose higher and higher until five minutes later Beryl, at his
orders, suddenly switched on the searchlight and swept around below
them.
At first they could distinguish nothing, yet from the direction of the
humming they knew it must be below them.
Two minutes later Ronnie’s quick eyes saw it in front of them, but a
hundred feet or so nearer the ground.
The enemy pilot, alarmed by the unexpected searchlight in the air,
suddenly rose, but Ronnie was too quick for him and rose also, at the
same time rapidly overhauling him.
Beryl, holding her breath, kept the searchlight with difficulty upon
him as gradually “The Hornet” drew over directly above him.
Quick as lightning Ronnie touched a button.
There was a loud swish of air, followed a second later by a dull, heavy
explosion in the valley far below.
The bomb had missed!
The enemy was still rising, and from him came the quick rattle of a
machine-gun, followed by a shower of bullets from below.
Ronnie Pryor set his teeth hard, and as he again touched the button,
exclaimed:
“Take that, then!”
Next second a bright flash lit up the rural landscape, followed by
a terrific explosion, the concussion of which caused “The Hornet”
to stagger, reel, and side-slip, while the enemy aeroplane was seen
falling to earth a huge mass of blood-red flame.
* * * * *
On the following day the evening papers reported the finding of a
mysterious wrecked and burnt-out aeroplane “somewhere in Kent.”
The pilot had been burnt out of all recognition, but among the wreckage
there had been discovered, it was said, some metal fittings believed to
be the principal parts of some unknown machine-gun.
Only Ronald Pryor and Beryl Gaselee knew the actual truth, namely,
that the enemy’s secret agents, at Marx’s incentive, had stolen, the
essential parts of a newly-invented machine-gun, and that these were
being conveyed by air to within the German lines, when the clever plot
was fortunately frustrated by “The Hornet.”