THE SHABBY STRANGER.
“Ronald has wired that he can’t get back here till to-night, so I shall
fly ‘The Hornet’ over to Sleaford to see Rose,” remarked Beryl to her
sister Iris, as they sat together at breakfast at Harbury one warm
August morning.
“Perhaps Ronald might object,” remarked Mrs. Remington, who was always
averse from her sister making ascents alone upon “The Hornet.”
“Oh, Ronnie won’t object! Besides, he always says that I can fly just
as well as any man.”
“But do be careful, won’t you, Beryl?” urged her sister. “Is the
weather really in a condition for making such a flight?”
“Perfect. I’ve just been looking at the barometer. It is quite steady,
and I shall have an excellent wind back.”
“I thought Ronald intended to go up on patrol-duty to-night. Last night
was very dark--just the conditions for another Zepp raid.”
“I expect he will,” replied Beryl. “He told me that he intended to
patrol the coast.”
“Then, if you go, you really will be careful, won’t you?”
Beryl laughed.
“Why, when once up there is not so much danger in the air as there is
in walking along a London street,” she declared.
“So Ronnie always says, but I rather doubt the statement,” Iris
replied. “Personally, I prefer _terra firma_.”
Breakfast ended, Beryl brushed her little black pom, one of her daily
duties, and then, going to her room, changed her dress, putting on
a warm jersey and a pair of workmanlike trousers, and over them a
windproof flying suit with leather cap tied beneath her chin, a garb
which gave her a very masculine appearance.
Very soon she arrived at “The Hornet Nest,” and, at her directions,
Collins brought out the great biplane and began to run the engine,
which Beryl watched with critical eye. Then, climbing into the pilot’s
seat, she began to manipulate the levers to reassure herself that all
the controls were in order.
“Beautiful morning for a flip, miss!” remarked the mechanic in brown
overalls. “Are you going up alone?”
“Yes, Collins. I’m going to visit my youngest sister at Sleaford, in
Lincolnshire.”
“Then I’ll take the bombs out,” he said, and at once removed the
six powerful bombs from the rack, the projectiles intended for the
destruction of Zeppelins. He also dismounted the quick-firing gun.
For some time Beryl did not appear entirely satisfied with the throb of
the engines, but at last Collins adjusted them until they were running
perfectly.
Within himself Collins was averse from allowing the girl to fly such a
powerful machine, knowing how easily, with such a big engine-power, the
biplane might get the upper hand of her. But as she had made ascents
alone in it several times before, it was not for him to raise any
objection.
Having consulted her map she arranged it inside its waterproof cover,
looked around at the instruments set before her, and then strapped
herself into the seat.
Meanwhile the engines had been humming loudly.
Suddenly she motioned to Collins to stand aside, and then, pulling
over one of the levers, she ran along the grass for a short distance
and rose gracefully in a long spiral, round and round over the Harbury
woods, until the altimeter showed a height of five thousand feet.
Then she studied her map, took her bearings, and, drawing on her ample
gauntlet gloves, for it became chilly, she followed a straight line of
railway leading due north through Suffolk and Norfolk.
The sky was cloudless, with a slight head-wind. On her right, away in
the misty distance, lay the North Sea, whence came a fresh breeze,
invigorating after the stifling August morning on land. Deep below she
identified villages and towns. Some of the latter were only indicated
by palls of smoke, the wind on land being insufficient to disperse
them. And over all the grey-green landscape was a strange flatness,
for, viewed from above, the country has no contours. It is just a
series of grey, green, and brown patchwork with white, snaky lines,
denoting roads, and long, grey lines, sometimes disappearing and then
reappearing, marking railways and their tunnels; while here and there
comes a glint of sunshine upon a river or canal. In the ears there is
only the deafening roar of petrol-driven machinery.
Once or twice, through the grey haze which always rises from the earth
on a hot morning, Beryl saw the blue line of the sea--that sea so
zealously guarded by Britain’s Navy. Then she flew steadily north to
the flat fens.
From below, her coming was signalled at several points, and at more
than one air-station glasses were levelled at her. But the tri-coloured
rings upon the wings reassured our anti-aircraft boys and, though they
recognised the machine as one of unusual model, they allowed her to
pass, for it was well-known that there were many experimental machines
in the air.
Beryl had sought and found upon her map the Great Northern main line,
and had followed it from Huntingdon to Peterborough. Afterwards, still
following the railway, she went for many miles until, of a sudden,
close by a small town which the map told her was called Bourne, in
Lincolnshire, her engines showed signs of slackening.
Something was amiss. Her quick ear told her so. A number of misfires
occurred. She pulled over another lever, but the result she expected
was not apparent. It was annoying that being so near Sleaford she had
met with engine trouble--for trouble there undoubtedly was.
At that moment she was flying at fully ten thousand feet, the normal
height for a “non-stop run.” Without being at all flurried she decided
that it would be judicious to plane down to earth; therefore, putting
“The Hornet’s” nose to the wind, she turned slightly eastward, and,
as she came down, decided to land upon a wide expanse of brown-green
ground--which very soon she distinguished as a piece of flat, rich
fenland, in which potatoes were growing.
At last she touched the earth and made a dexterous landing.
At that moment, to her great surprise, she became aware of a second
machine in the vicinity. She heard a low droning like that of a big
bumblebee, and on looking up saw an Army monoplane coming down swiftly
in her direction.
Indeed, its pilot brought it to earth within a few hundred yards of
where she had landed. Then, springing out, he came across to where she
stood.
On approaching her he appeared to be greatly surprised that the big
biplane had been flown by a woman.
“I saw you were in trouble,” explained the pilot, a tall, good-looking
lieutenant of the Royal Flying Corps, who spoke with a slight American
accent, “so I came down to see if I could give you any assistance.”
“It is most awfully kind of you,” Beryl replied, pulling off her thick
gloves. “I don’t think it is really very much. I’ve had the same
trouble before. She’s a new ’bus.”
“So I see,” replied the stranger, examining “The Hornet” with critical
eye. “And she’s very fast, too.”
“When did you first see me?” she asked with curiosity.
“You were passing over Huntingdon. I had come across to the railway
from the Great North Road which I had followed up from London. I’m on
my way to Hull.”
“Well, I had no idea you were behind me!” laughed the girl merrily. The
air-pilot with the silver wings upon his breast seemed a particularly
nice man, and it showed a good _esprit de corps_ to have descended in
order to offer assistance to another man, as he had no doubt believed
the pilot to be.
Without further parley, he set to work to help her in readjusting
her engine, and in doing so quickly betrayed his expert knowledge of
aeroplane-engines.
“I have only a few miles to go--to Sleaford. My sister lives just
outside the town, and there is a splendid landing-place in her
husband’s grounds,” Beryl explained, when at last the engine ran
smoothly again.
It was but natural that the good-looking lieutenant should appear
inquisitive regarding the new machine. His expert eye showed him the
unusual power of the twin engines, and he expressed much surprise at
several new inventions that had been introduced.
He told her that he had been flying for seven months at the Front,
and had been sent home for a rest. He had flown from Farnborough that
morning and was making a “non-stop” to the Humber.
Many were the questions he put to Beryl regarding “The Hornet.” So many
and so pressing were his queries that presently she became seized by
distrust--why, she could not exactly decide.
The air-pilot naturally inquired as to the biplane’s constructor, but
all Beryl would say was:
“It is not mine. It belongs to a friend of mine.”
“A gentleman friend, of course?” he remarked, with a mischievous laugh.
“Of course! He himself invented it.”
“A splendid defence against Zeppelins,” he said. “I see she can carry
ten bombs, a searchlight, and a Lewis gun. All are wanted against the
Kaiser’s infernal baby-killers,” he added, laughing.
Then, having thoroughly examined “The Hornet,” the courteous lieutenant
of the Royal Flying Corps stood by until she had again risen in the
air, waved her gloved hand in farewell, made a circle over the field,
and then headed away for Sleaford.
“H’m!” grunted the flying-man as he stood watching her disappear.
“Foiled again! She’s left that new silencer of hers at home! That girl
is no fool--neither is Ronald Pryor. Though I waited for her in Bury
St. Edmunds and followed her up here, I am just about as wise regarding
‘The Hornet’ as I was before I started.”
For a few moments he stood watching the machine as it soared higher and
higher against the cloudless summer sky.
“Yes! A very pretty girl--but very clever--devilishly clever!” he
muttered to himself. “Just my luck! If only she had had that silencer
I would have silenced her, and taken it away with me. However, we are
not yet defeated.”
* * * * *
About a week later Ronald Pryor and Beryl were lunching together in
the grill-room of a West End hotel, which was one of their favourite
meeting-places, when suddenly the girl bent over to her lover and
exclaimed:
“I’m sure that’s the man, Ronnie.”
“What man?”
“The nice Flying Corps officer whom I met near Bourne the other day.
You’ll see him, sitting in the corner yonder alone--reading the paper,”
she replied. “Don’t look for a moment.”
“Don’t you think you’ve made a mistake, dear?”
“No, I feel positive I haven’t,” was the girl’s reply.
That morning Ronald Pryor, accompanied by Beryl, had made a flight in
“The Hornet” from Harbury to the Essex coast and back, and they had
just arrived in town by train. The renowned Zepp-hunter was in a light
grey suit, while Beryl, becomingly dressed, was in a coat and skirt of
navy blue gaberdine trimmed with broad black silk braid.
A few moments after Beryl had spoken, her lover turned suddenly, as
though to survey the room in search of someone he knew; his gaze met
that of the solitary man eating his lunch leisurely in the corner and
apparently, until that moment, absorbed in a newspaper. The stranger
was good-looking, aged about thirty, thin, rather narrow-faced, with
a pair of sharp steel-grey eyes, and a small dark moustache. His
shoulders were square, and his appearance somewhat dandified. In his
black cravat he wore an unusually fine diamond, and his hands were
white and well-kept.
Apparently he was a man of leisure, and was entirely uninterested in
those about him, for, after a sharp glance of inquiry at Ronald, he
continued reading his paper.
“Are you quite sure you’ve made no mistake?” inquired Pryor of his
companion.
“Positive, my dear Ronald. That’s the man whom I met in the uniform of
the Royal Flying Corps, and who was so kind to me. No doubt, he doesn’t
recognise me in these clothes.”
“Then why isn’t he in uniform now?”
“Perhaps he has leave to wear _civvies_,” she replied. “There are so
many curious regulations and exemptions nowadays.”
Though the stranger’s eyes had met those of Beryl there had been no
sign of recognition. Hence she soon began to share Ronald’s doubt as to
whether he was really the same person who had descended in that potato
field in Lincolnshire, and had so gallantly assisted her in her trouble.
Ronald and his well-beloved, having finished their luncheon, rose and
drove together in a taxi over to Waterloo, the former being due to
visit his works at Weybridge, where he had an appointment with one of
the Government Inspectors.
As soon as they had passed out of the restaurant the man who sat alone
tossed his paper aside, paid his bill, and left.
Ten minutes later he entered a suite of chambers in Ryder Street, where
an elderly, rather staid-looking grey-haired man rose to greet him.
“Well?” he asked. “What news?”
“Nothing much--except that Pryor is flying to-night on patrol work,”
replied the other in German.
“H’m, that means that he will have the new silencer upon his machine!”
“Exactly,” said the man who had displayed the silver wings of the Royal
Flying Corps, though he had no right whatever to them. “By day ‘The
Hornet’ never carries the silencer. I proved that when I assisted the
girl in Lincolnshire. We can only secure it by night.”
“And that is a little difficult--eh?”
“Yes--a trifle.”
“Then how do you intend to act, my dear Leffner.”
The man addressed shrugged his shoulders.
“I have an idea,” was his reply. “But I do not yet know if it is
feasible until I make further observations and inquiries.”
“You anticipate success? Good!” the elder man replied in satisfaction.
“Think of all it means to us. Only to-day I have received another very
urgent request from our good friend, Mr. J----; a request for the full
details of the construction of ‘The Hornet.’”
“We have most of them,” replied the man addressed as Leffner.
“But not the secret of the silencer. That seems to be well guarded,
does it not?”
“It is very well guarded,” Leffner admitted. “But I view the future
with considerable confidence because the girl flies the machine alone,
and--well,” he laughed--“strange and unaccountable accidents happen to
aeroplanes sometimes!”
* * * * *
A few days later, soon after noon, a narrow-faced man, with shifty
eyes, carrying a small, well-worn leather bag, entered the old King’s
Head Inn in Harbury village and, seating himself in the bar, mopped his
brow with his handkerchief. The mile walk from the nearest station had
been a hot one along a dusty, shadeless road, and when Jane Joyce, the
landlady’s daughter, appeared, the shabby traveller ordered a pint of
ale, which he drank almost at one draught.
Then, lighting his pipe, he began to chat with Jane, having, as a
preliminary, ordered some luncheon. By this manoeuvre he had loosened
the young woman’s tongue, and she was soon gossiping about the village
and those who lived there.
The wayfarer asked many questions; as excuse, he said:
“The reason I want to know is because I travel in jewellery, and I
daresay there are a lot of people about here whom I might call upon.
I come from Birmingham, and I’m usually in this district four times a
year, though I’ve never been in Harbury before. My name is George Bean.”
“Well, there’s not many people here who buy jewellery,” replied the
landlady’s daughter. “Farming is so bad just now, and the war has
affected things a lot here. But why don’t you go up and see Mrs.
Remington, at Harbury Court? They’ve got lots of money.”
“Ah! Who are they?”
“Well, Captain Remington is a prisoner in Germany, but Mrs. Remington
is still at home. She has her sister, Miss Beryl Gaselee, staying with
her. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. She’s a great flying-woman.”
“Oh, yes!” replied the stranger. “I’ve seen things about her in the
papers. Does she fly much?”
“A good deal. Mr. Ronald Pryor, to whom she’s engaged, invented
her machine; he calls it ‘The Hornet,’ and he keeps it here--in a
corrugated iron shed in the park, close to the house!”
“How interesting!”
“Yes. And the pair often go up at nights,” went on the young woman.
“Mother and I frequently hear them passing over the house in the
darkness.”
“Do you always hear them go up?” asked the stranger suddenly.
“No, not always. They go over sometimes without making a sound.”
“That is at night, I suppose? In the day you can always hear them.”
“Yes. Always.”
The traveller in Birmingham jewellery remained silent for a few minutes.
“I suppose they have a mechanic there?”
“Yes--a Mr. Collins. He comes in sometimes with Mr. Sheppard, the
butler. He was butler to the Colonel’s old father, you know.”
“And this Mr. Collins lives at the house, I suppose?”
“No. He sleeps in the place where the new aeroplane is kept.”
Mr. Bean smiled, but made no comment. Knowledge of that fact was, to
him, important. He lit another pipe, and, while Miss Joyce went away
to lay the table for his lunch in the adjoining room, he stretched his
legs and thought deeply.
Hans Leffner, _alias_ George Bean, was the son of a German who, forty
years before, had emigrated from Hamburg to Boston. Born in America he
was, nevertheless, a true son of the Fatherland. He had been educated
in Germany, and returned to Boston about a year before war broke out.
Suddenly he had been called up for confidential service, and within
a month had found himself despatched to London, the bearer of an
American passport in the name of Henry Lane, commercial traveller, of
St. Louis. Upon a dozen different secret matters he had been employed,
until knowledge of the existence of “The Hornet” having reached the
spy-bureau in Berlin, he received certain secret instructions which he
was carrying out to the letter.
Hans Leffner had been taught at his mother’s knee to hate England,
and he hated it with a most deadly hatred. He was a clever and daring
spy, as his masquerade in the Royal Flying Corps uniform clearly
proved; moreover, he was an aviation expert who had once held a post of
under-director in “Uncle” Zeppelin’s aircraft factory.
For some weeks he had dogged the footsteps of Ronald and Beryl, and
they, happy in each other’s affection, had been quite ignorant of how
the wandering American had been unduly attracted towards them.
The landlady of the King’s Head--that long, thatched, old-world house
over which for fifty years her husband had ruled as landlord--had no
suspicion that the jeweller’s traveller was anything but an Englishman
from Birmingham. He spoke English well, and had no appearance of the
Teuton.
Mr. Bean ate his chop alone, waited on by Jane, who, finding him
affable, imparted to him all the information she knew regarding Harbury
Court and its inmates.
At half-past two the traveller, taking his bag, set out on a tour of
the village in an endeavour to dispose of some of his samples. His
appearance was much changed, and he bore but little resemblance to
the pilot of the Royal Flying Corps who had descended near Bourne. He
looked much older, and walked wearily, with a decided stoop.
At house after house in the long village street he called, disguising
his intentions most perfectly. At more than one cottage he was allowed
to exhibit his wares, and at the shop of the village baker the daughter
in charge purchased a little brooch for five shillings. Its cost price
was thirty shillings, but Mr. Bean wanted to effect a sale and, by so
doing, appear to be carrying on a legitimate business.
By six o’clock he was back again at the King’s Head, having called upon
most of the inhabitants of Harbury. He had, indeed, been up to the
Court, and not only had he shown his samples to the maids, but he had
taken two orders for rings to be sent on approval.
Incidentally he had passed “The Hornet’s” nest, and had seen the
machine in the meadow outside, ready for the night flight. As a simple,
hard-working, travel-stained dealer in cheap jewellery nobody had
suspected him of enemy intentions. But he had laid his plans very
carefully, and his observations round “The Hornet’s” nest had told him
much.
To Mrs. Joyce he declared that he was very tired and, in consequence,
had decided to remain the night. So he was shown up stairs that were
narrow to a low-ceilinged room where the bed-stead was one that had
been there since the days of Queen Anne. The chintzes were bright and
clean, but the candle in its brass candlestick was a survival of an age
long forgotten.
At ten o’clock he retired to bed, declaring himself very fatigued, but
on going to his room he threw open the old-fashioned, latticed window,
and listened. The night was very dark, but quite calm--just the night
for an air raid from the enemy shore.
Having blown out his candle he sat down, alert at any sound. After
nearly an hour, Mrs. Joyce and her daughter having retired to bed, he
suddenly detected a slight swish in the air, quite distinct from the
well-known hum of the usual aeroplane. It was a low sound, rising at
one moment and lost the next. “The Hornet” had passed over the inn so
quietly that it would not awaken the lightest sleeper.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud to himself. “That silencer is, indeed
wonderful!”
With the greatest caution he opened his door and, creeping down on
tiptoe, was soon outside in the village street; keeping beneath the
deep shadows, he went forward on the road which led up the hill to the
long belt of trees near which had been erected the corrugated iron shed.
Meanwhile Ronald, accompanied by Beryl, had ascended higher and higher
in the darkness. Ronnie had swung the machine into the wind, and they
were climbing, climbing straight into the dark vault above. Below
were twinkling shaded lights, some the red and green signal lights of
railways. Beryl could see dimly the horizon of the world, and used as
she was to it, she realised how amazing it was to look down upon Mother
Earth. By day, when one is flying, the sky does not rise and meet in a
great arch overhead, but, like a huge bowl, the sky seems to pass over
and incircle the earth.
They were flying due east by the dimly lit compass at five thousand
feet, heading straight for the Essex coast.
“We may possibly have visitors from Belgium to-night,” laughed Ronnie,
as he turned to his well-beloved. “But look! Why--we are already over
the sea!”
Beryl, gazing down, saw below a tiny light twinkling out a message
in Morse, answered by another light not far distant. Two ships were
signalling. Then Ronnie made a wide circle in that limitless void which
obliterated the meeting point of earth and sea.
The long white beam of a searchlight sweeping slowly seaward, turned
back inland and followed them until it picked up “The Hornet,” Ronnie
banking suddenly to show the tri-coloured circles upon his wings.
Afterwards he again consulted his compass and struck due south,
following the coast-line over Harwich and round to the Thames estuary.
“No luck to-night, dearest!” laughed Ronnie. “The barometer is too low
for our friends.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “Let us get back!” And Ronnie once more circled
his machine very prettily, showing perfect mastery over it, as he came
down lower and lower until, when passing over Felixstowe, he was not
more than three hundred feet in the air.
Meanwhile, the guest at the King’s Head had made the most of his time.
He had reasoned, and not without truth, that if “The Hornet” had
ascended, the mechanic, Collins, would no doubt leave the hangar, and,
if so, that now would be a good opportunity to obtain entrance.
With that in view he had crept along to the shed and, as he had hoped,
found the doors unlocked. Quickly he entered and, by the aid of his
flash-lamp, looked round.
At last the long tentacles of the German spy-bureau in the
“Königgrätzerstrasse” had spread to the little village of Harbury.
Five minutes sufficed for the spy to complete his observations. At an
engineer’s bench he halted and realised the technical details of a
certain part of the secret silencer. But only a part, and by it he was
pretty puzzled.
He held it in his hand in the light of his flash-lamp and, in German
exclaimed:
“_Ach!_ I wonder how that can be? If we could only obtain the secret
of that silencer!” the Hun continued to himself. “But we shall--no
doubt! I and my friends have not come here for nothing. We have work
before us--and we shall complete it, if not to-day--then in the near
to-morrow.”
The shabby stranger returned to the King’s Head and, letting himself
in, retired to his room without a sound. Hardly had he undressed when
he heard again that low swish of “The Hornet” on her return from her
scouting circuit of the Thames estuary.
Hans Leffner, _alias_ Bean, had not been trained as a spy for nothing.
He was a crafty, clever cosmopolitan, whose little eyes and wide ears
were ever upon the alert for information, and who could pose perfectly
in half-a-dozen disguises. As the traveller of a Birmingham jewellery
firm he could entirely deceive the cheap jeweller of any little town.
He was one of many such men who were passing up and down Great Britain,
learning all they could of our defences, our newest inventions, and our
intentions.
Next day Mr. Bean remained indoors at the King’s Head, for it was a
drenching day. But at last, when the weather cleared at eight o’clock,
he lit his pipe and strolled out in the fading light.
Before leaving he had taken from the bottom of the bag containing his
samples of cheap jewellery a small, thick screw-bolt about two inches
long, and placed it in his pocket with an air of confidence.
Half-an-hour later he crept into the shed which sheltered “The Hornet”
and, not finding the silencer upon the exhaust, as he had anticipated,
turned his attention to the fusilage of the biplane. From this he
quickly, and with expert hand, unscrewed a bolt, swiftly substituting
in its stead the bolt he had brought, which he screwed in place
carefully with his pocket wrench.
The bolt he had withdrawn hung heavily in his jacket-pocket, and as he
stood, alert and eager, there suddenly sounded the musical voice of a
woman.
Next second he had slipped out of the hangar and gained cover in a
thicket close by.
Beryl was crossing the grass, laughing gaily in the falling light. With
her were Pryor, and Collins the mechanic. A few minutes before, Ronald
and she, having finished dinner, had put on their flying-suits and,
passing through the long windows out upon the lawn, had bidden farewell
to Iris, as they were going on their usual patrol flight.
Ronald, leaving her suddenly, struck away to the hangar and, entering
it, turned up the electric lights. With both hands he tested the steel
stays of the great biplane, and then, aided by the mechanic, he wheeled
the machine out ready for an ascent, for the atmospheric conditions
were exactly suitable for an air raid by the enemy.
“We had better go up and test the engines, dear,” he suggested. “This
afternoon they were not at all satisfactory.”
Beryl climbed into the observer’s seat, he following as pilot, while
Collins disappeared round the corner of the hangar to get something.
Then the pair, seated beside each other and tightly strapped in,
prepared to ascend in the increasing darkness.
The sudden roar of the powerful engines was terrific, and could be
heard many miles away, for they were testing without the silencer.
Scarcely had they risen a hundred feet from the ground when there was a
sharp crack and “The Hornet,” swerving, shed her right wing entirely,
and dived straight with her nose to the earth.
A crash, a heavy thud, and in an instant Ronald and Beryl, happily
strapped in their seats, were half-stunned by the concussion. Had they
not been secured in their seats both must have been killed, as the man
Leffner had intended.
The engine had stopped, for, half the propeller being broken, the other
half had embedded itself deeply into the ground. Collins came running
up, half frantic with fear, but was soon reassured by the pair of
intrepid aviators, who unstrapped themselves and quickly climbed out of
the wreckage. Ere long a flare was lit and the broken wing carefully
examined; it was soon discovered that “The Hornet” had been tampered
with, one of the steel bolts having been replaced by a painted one of
wood!
“This is the work of the enemy!” remarked Ronnie thoughtfully. “They
cannot obtain sight of the silencer, therefore there has been a
dastardly plot to kill both of us. We must be a little more wary in
future, dear.”
Ronald’s shrewdness did not show itself openly, but having made a good
many inquiries, both in Harbury village and elsewhere, he, at last, was
able to identify the man who had made that secret attempt upon their
lives. Of this, however, he said nothing to Beryl. “The Hornet” was
repaired, and they made night flights again.
Ronald anticipated that a second attempt would be made to obtain the
silencer. Taking Collins into his confidence, he made it his habit each
dawn, when they came home from their patrol of the coast, to leave
in the little office beside the hangar the box which contained the
silencer, the secret of which he knew the Germans were so very anxious
to obtain.
For a fortnight nothing untoward occurred, until one morning soon after
all three had returned from a flight to London and back, they were
startled by a terrific explosion from the direction of the hangar.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Ronald. “What’s that?”
“The trap has gone off, sir,” was Collins’s grim reply.
All three ran back to the shed, whereupon they saw that the little
office had been entirely swept away, and that part of the roof of the
hangar was off. Amid the wreckage lay the body of a man with his face
shattered, stone-dead. “He thought the box contained the silencer, and
when he lifted the lid he received a nasty shock, sir--eh?” Collins
remarked.
“But who is it, Ronald?” gasped Beryl, horrified.
“The man who made the attempt on our lives a month ago, dearest,” was
her lover’s reply. “Come away. He has paid the penalty which all spies
should pay.”
A few hours later Ronald Pryor made a statement to the authorities
which resulted in the explosion being regarded, to all but those
immediately concerned, as a complete mystery.