THE THURSDAY RENDEZVOUS.
Beryl Gaselee, in her warm leather motor-coat and close-fitting little
hat, stood gazing out of the coffee-room window of the Unicorn Hotel in
the quiet old cathedral town of Ripon, in Yorkshire.
In the falling twilight of the wintry afternoon all looked dull
and cheerless. The car stood outside with Ronald Pryor and Collins
attending to some slight engine-trouble--the fast, open car which
Ronnie sometimes used to such advantage. It was covered with mud, after
the long run north from Suffolk, for they had started from Harbury long
before daylight, and, until an hour ago, had been moving swiftly up the
Great North Road, by way of Stamford, Grantham, and Doncaster to York.
There they had turned away to Ripon, where, for an hour, they had eaten
and rested. In a basket the waiter had placed some cold food with some
bread and a bottle of wine, and this had been duly transferred to the
car.
All was now ready for a continuance of the journey.
“Well, Beryl!” exclaimed Ronnie, returning to where the pretty young
air-woman was standing before the fire. “All ready--eh?”
“Quite, dear,” was her reply. “You haven’t forgotten the revolvers,
have you?” she asked in a low voice.
“No. There’s one for each of us--and one for you if you’d like it,” he
laughed.
“Yes. I think I’d better have it, dear--one never knows.”
“Not much good against a machine-gun, you know!” he laughed. “But a
weapon always gives one confidence.”
“I’ve had the flask filled with hot tea,” she said. “We shall, no
doubt, want it.”
“Yes. It will be a coldish job. Are you quite warm enough--quite sure
you are?” he asked, as the white-haired old waiter entered the snug,
warm coffee-room.
“Quite,” she answered, as she drew on her fur-lined gloves.
“Well--good-evening, waiter!” exclaimed Ronnie cheerily.
“Good-evening, sir,” replied the old man pleasantly.
Ten minutes later, with Ronnie driving, Beryl snuggled at his side, and
Collins seated under the rug in the back of the car, they had passed
the dark, imposing façade of the grey, old cathedral and were well out
upon the darkening road, through High Berrys and over Hutton Moor. At
last they reached Baldersby Gate, where they turned into the long,
straight Roman road which runs direct north from York, and, though a
continuation of the old Watling Street, is there known as Leeming Lane.
With nightfall there had arisen a cutting north-east wind, that
searching breeze which all dwellers in Yorkshire know far too well,
comes over with the month of February.
From Baldersby Gate, past Sinderby Station, through Hope Town on to
Leeming village, the ancient road ran straight as an arrow, then, with
a slight curve to Leeming Station, it ran on to Catterick. By this time
they had passed the race-course, which lay on the left of the road
before coming to the cross-roads; it was already dark, and drawing up
at Catterick Bridge Station, Collins got down and lit the head-lamps,
Ronald Pryor having a written permission from Whitehall to use them.
Striking across through the town of Richmond they climbed the high
hills over Hipswell and Barden Moor to Leyburn, and then down into
Wensley Dale, famed for its cheeses, by the northern road which took
them through the picturesque village of Redmire on to Askrigg as far as
a darkened and lonely inn close to Hardraw Force. There they pulled up,
and, entering, asked for something to eat.
By that time, ten o’clock, all three were chilled to the bone, after
crossing those wide, open moorlands, where the keen wind cut their
faces all the time. The landlady, a stout, cheerful person, soon busied
herself to provide creature comforts for the travellers, and within a
quarter of an hour all were seated at a substantial meal.
While the good woman was busying herself at table Ronnie suddenly
became inquisitive, exclaiming:
“There’s a friend of mine, a Mr. Aylesworth, who often comes up to this
neighbourhood. He lives in Leeds, but he rents a cottage somewhere
about here. He’s a queer and rather lonely man. Do you happen to know
him?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Aylesworth is quite well known in Hardraw. He has
rented old Tom Dalton’s cottage, up on the hill at Simon Stone, for
quite eighteen months now.”
“Is that far from here?”
“Only about half-a-mile up Buttertubs Pass.”
“Buttertubs! What a very curious name!” Beryl remarked. “Where does the
pass lead to?”
“Why, straight up over Abbotside Common, just below Lovely Seat, and it
comes out on the high road in Swale Dale, close to Thwaite.”
“Who is Dalton?” asked the airman.
“Old Farmer Dalton. He’s got several cottages on his place. He himself
lives over at Gayle, close to Hawes.”
“Does my friend Aylesworth ever come in here?”
“Oh, very often, sir!” replied the woman. “Everybody knows him. He’s
such a real cheerful, good-hearted gentleman. He’s always giving
away something. It’s a sad thing for many about here that there’s no
treating nowadays.”
“Well,” laughed Beryl, “the order is, I hear from my friends, very
often broken.”
“You’re right, miss,” the broad, round-faced woman admitted. “You can’t
always prevent it, you know, though we folk do all we can, because of
our licenses.”
“So my friend Aylesworth is quite popular? I’m glad to hear that,”
replied Ronnie. “He lives here constantly nowadays, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, sir! He comes down here just at odd times. Sometimes in the
beginning of the week; sometimes for the week-end,” was the reply.
“He’s often up in London--on Government contracts, I’ve heard him say.”
Beryl and her lover exchanged shrewd and meaning glances.
“Yes, I know that Mr. Aylesworth must be very busy,” remarked Pryor. “I
suppose he comes out here just for quiet and rest?”
“Yes. That’s it, sir,” replied the inn-keeper’s wife. “Only the other
day he called in here, and was saying that he was so busy that it was a
complete change to come here to the moors for rest and fresh air.”
“You’ve had Zepps over here lately, I’ve heard. Is that true?” inquired
Ronnie.
“Well, they’ve passed over once or twice, they say, but I’ve been in
bed and asleep. My husband was called up last month, and is now in
training down in Kent. Only a week ago he wrote to me saying he hoped I
wasn’t frightened by them. Somebody down in Kent had evidently spread
a report that they had been over here. But I’m thankful to say I heard
nothing of them.”
“Do you ever get aeroplanes over?” asked Beryl.
“Oh, yes, miss! We get some across in the daytime. They must have an
aerodrome somewhere on the coast, I think--but I don’t know where it
is.”
“Do you ever hear anything of them at night?” inquired the girl.
“Well, just now and then. I’ve been awakened sometimes by the humming
of them passing over at night--our patrols, I suppose they are.”
Ronald Pryor exchanged another meaning glance with his well-beloved.
“Do they sound quite near?” he asked.
“Oh! quite--unusually low. I suppose they manoeuvre across the
moors?” she said. “Mr. Benton, the farmer who lives over at
Crosslands, quite close here, was only the other day telling me a
curious story. He said he was going home late the other night from Jack
Sneath’s, when he heard an aeroplane above him, and he saw the machine
making some flashlights--signalling to somebody. It flew round and
round, hovering and signalling madly. Suddenly, he told me, the aviator
cut off his engine, as though he had received an answer, and sailing
over the moor, descended somewhere close by, for the hum of the engine
was heard no more.”
“Curious!” Pryor remarked, again glancing at his well-beloved.
“Oh, no, sir!” replied the smiling woman. “It was only the night
manoeuvres of our splendid aircraft boys. Really everyone must admire
them,” she added, unaware of Ronald Pryor’s qualifications as an
air-pilot.
Ten minutes later all three were out on the road again, travelling
along the valley in the direction of Hawes Junction. The night was
overcast and very dark, therefore Ronnie was compelled to switch on his
head-lights, the road at that part being particularly dangerous.
The country they were now in was a wild and lonely one, with high
peaks and wide, desolate moorlands; a sparsely populated district, far
removed from the busy workaday world.
They had travelled as far as the old inn called the Moor Cock, where
the road branches off to Kirkby Stephen, when Ronnie pulled up, and,
turning, ran back again to within a mile of Hardraw. Then finding a
convenient grass field, he ran the car in behind a low stone wall,
where it was hidden from any passer-by. Then, each taking a flash-lamp
and a revolver, they, after shutting off the lights, sought a path
which at last they took, climbing up the steep hill-side.
A quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to a narrow, stony lane,
which, after another quarter of an hour, led them to a long, low,
stone-built cottage, surrounded by a clump of trees.
“That’s Dalton’s cottage,” remarked Ronnie. “It answers exactly to the
description we have of it. Now, Collins, you get down on the left, so
as to have a good point of view while we watch for anything stirring
away on the right.”
It was then half-past ten o’clock. Though cold, the night was very
still on those lonely moorlands. The house Ronnie and Beryl were
approaching was in total darkness, a gloomy, remote place in which the
mystery-man from Leeds, George Aylesworth, came for rest and quiet
after the business turmoil of the great manufacturing town.
At last Ronald and his companion got up quite close to the house, and
finding a spot whence they had a good view of the front door, they
crouched beneath an ivy-clad wall, and there, without speaking, waited,
knowing that Collins was on watch at the rear of the premises.
Their vigil was a long and weary one until at last the door opened. By
the light within there was revealed a tall, lean man in overcoat and
golf-cap. Beneath his left arm he carried something long and round,
like a cylinder, while in his right hand he had a stout stick.
He came out, closed the door carefully behind him, and then,
passing close to where the air-woman and her lover were crouched
in concealment, struck away up a steep, narrow path which led up
to the summit of the Black Hill. Happily for the watchers the wind
had now become rather rough, hence they were able to follow the man
Aylesworth--for Ronald recognised him by the description; keeping at a
respectful distance, of course, but determinedly dogging his footsteps.
After walking for nearly half-a-mile up a steep ascent, and over a
stony path, the man Aylesworth halted at a point which gave a view of
the moor, with its fells and dales, for many miles around. From where
Ronald halted he could see the man faintly silhouetted against the
skyline.
“Look!” whispered Beryl. “What is he doing?”
“Watch,” urged her companion.
And as they watched they suddenly saw a beam of intense, white light, a
miniature searchlight of great brilliance, pierce the darkness skyward.
The man Aylesworth was manipulating what they now recognised to be
an acetylene signalling apparatus, a cylinder mounted upon a light
tripod of aluminium, with a bright reflector behind the gas-jet, and,
from the manner that the light began to “wink,” three times in quick
succession--the Morse letter “S.”--there was evidently some shutter
arrangement upon it.
Slowly the beam turned from north to south, making the Morse “S.” upon
the clouds time after time.
Suddenly the light was shut off. For five minutes by Ronald’s watch no
flicker was shown. Then, once again, the series of “S’s.” was repeated
in a semi-circle from north to south, and back again.
Another five minutes passed in darkness.
Once more the light opened out and commenced to signal the Morse
flashes and flares “N. F.,” “N. F.,” “N. F.,” followed by a long beam
of light skyward, slowly sweeping in a circle.
Pryor glanced at his watch. It was then exactly midnight. Aylesworth
had, no doubt, a rendezvous with someone. His signal could be seen from
that point over a radius of fully thirty miles, or even more, for
Ronnie, who understood signalling, was well aware that the portable
apparatus being used was one of the most intense and reliable type--one
that was, indeed, being used by the German army in Flanders.
For the next half-hour the signals were repeated, until, of a sudden,
Beryl’s quick ears caught some unusual sound.
“Hark!” she whispered.
Both, on listening intently, heard the low hum of a distant aeroplane
in the darkness.
The light was signalling madly, and at the same time the machine, high
in the vault of the night sky, was fast approaching. The pair watched,
straining their eyes to discover it, but though the sound betrayed its
presence, they could not discern its whereabouts until there appeared
high over them a small, bright light, like a green star, which repeated
the signal “N. F.,” “N. F.,” half-a-dozen times.
“This is most interesting!” whispered Ronald, “Look! Why, he’s planing
down.”
Beryl watched, and saw how the aeroplane which had come out of the
night was now making short spirals, and planing down as quickly as was
practicable in that rather dangerous wind.
Every moment the low hum of the engine became more and more distinct
as, time after time, signals were shown in response to those flashed
by the mysterious man from Leeds. Then ten minutes later the machine,
which proved to be a Fokker, came to earth only about fifty yards from
where Beryl and Ronald were standing.
Aylesworth ran up breathlessly the moment the machine touched the
grass, and with him the watchers crept swiftly up, in order to try to
overhear the conversation.
It was in German. The aviator and his observer climbed out of the seats
and stood with Mr. Aylesworth, chatting and laughing.
The pilot calmly lit a cigarette, and drawing something from his
pocket, gave it to the man who had been awaiting his arrival.
Thereupon, Aylesworth, on his part, handed the airman a letter, saying
in English:
“That’s all to-night. Please tell Count von Stumnitz that the reply
will not be given till Thursday next. By that time we shall have news
from the North Sea.”
“Excellent,” replied the aviator, who spoke English perfectly, and who,
if the truth were told, had before the war lived the life of a bachelor
in Jermyn Street. “I shall be over again on Thursday at midnight
punctually. I must run up from the south next time. The anti-aircraft
found me on the coast and fired.”
“Well, if you come on Thursday I’ll have the despatch ready.”
Suddenly the observer, who spoke in German, said:
“I have some letters here from the Wilhelmstrasse. Will you post them
for me?”
“Certainly.”
“They are all ready. They are written upon English paper, and
English penny stamps are upon them. Therefore, they can be put into
any post-box, and will not arouse suspicion. They mostly contain
instructions to our good friends who are scattered over Great Britain.”
Aylesworth took from the man’s hand a packet of letters tied with
string--secret despatches from the German General Staff to the Kaiser’s
spies in Great Britain--and thrust them into the big pocket of his
overcoat.
The two Huns and the traitor stood there together in cheery
conversation. Much that they said Ronald and Beryl could not overhear.
Sometimes there was low whispering, sometimes a burst of hilarious
laughter. But it was evident that all three were in perfect accord, and
that the aviator and his observer were well-known to Mr. Aylesworth of
Leeds.
Far away--many miles off--there showed a faint tremor in the sky, the
flash of a distant anti-aircraft searchlight. Now and then it trembled,
then all became dark again. The pair of enemies, who that night had
landed upon British soil, at last decided that it was high time for
them to hie back over the North Sea, therefore they climbed again into
their machine--one of the fastest and newest of the Fokker type--and
for a few minutes busied themselves in testing their instruments and
engine.
The pilot descended again to have a final look round, after which
he once more climbed up to his seat, while Aylesworth, acting as
mechanic--for, if the truth be told, he had been an aviator’s mechanic
at Hendon for three years before the outbreak of war--gave the
propeller a swing over.
There was a loud roar, the machine leapt forward over the withered
heather, bumping along the uneven surface, until, gaining speed, the
tail slowly lifted, and after a run of a couple of hundred yards, the
Fokker skimmed easily away off the ground.
As Ronnie watched in silence he saw that for another fifty yards the
German pilot held her down, and then, with a rush and that quick swoop
of which the Fokker is capable, up she went, and away!
She made a circuit of perhaps eight hundred feet and then sped
somewhere into the darkness upon a straight eastward course to the
coast, and over the rough North Sea.
As the pair watched, still arm-in-arm, they again saw the faint tremor
of our searchlights in the far distance.
“Wouff! Wouff! Wouff!” sounded faintly far away.
The Fokker had been picked up by our anti-aircraft boys, and was being
fired upon!
“Wouff! Wouff!” again sounded afar. But the bark of the shell died
away, and it seemed plain that the Hun machine had, by a series of
side-slips, nose-dives, and quick turns, avoided our anti-aircraft
guns, and was well on its way carrying those secret communications to
the German General Staff.
The enemy pilot had “streaked off” eastwards, and to sea.
“Now we know this fellow Aylesworth’s game!” whispered Ronnie. “Next
Thursday he will be sending away some important message. Therefore, we
must be here to have a finger in the enemy’s pie--eh?”
“Certainly, dearest,” replied the gallant little woman at his side.
“It certainly is a _coup_ for you that you have discovered this secret
means of communication between ourselves and the enemy.”
“Not really,” he said in a low voice. “Our people scented the mystery,
and have handed it on to me to investigate.”
“Well, we know that something is leaving us on Thursday--some important
information.”
“Just so. And is it up to us to see that Aylesworth does not send it
across the sea successfully--eh?”
“Let’s get away now,” urged Beryl. “He may discover us.”
Ronald stood, his arm linked in that of his well-beloved. He made
no remark as he watched the dark silhouette of the man Aylesworth
disappear over the brow of the hill.
Presently he said:
“Well, dear, he hasn’t discovered us. But if all goes well we shall be
back here on Thursday.”
Half-an-hour later they met Collins awaiting them near the car. The
mechanic became greatly interested when his master described briefly
what they had seen.
Then all three mounted into their seats, the lights were switched on,
and they turned back to Kirkby Stephen, where they spent the remainder
of the night at the old “King’s Arms,” giving a fictitious story of a
breakdown.
* * * * *
Two days later, Pryor having made a long written report to the
Anti-Aircraft Headquarters, took the train from Liverpool Street
Station down to Harbury Court, there to await instructions. Beryl,
who was already down there with Iris, was greatly excited, for only
she, Ronald, and Collins knew of the intended _coup_ next Thursday.
Zeppelins had sailed over the East Coast, and had paid the penalty
for so doing. “Uncle”--the pet name for Count Zeppelin at the Potsdam
Court--was, it was reported, in tears of rage. He had promised the
Kaiser that he would appal Great Britain, but the British refused
even to be alarmed. The Zeppelin menace, thought by the world to be
so serious, had “fizzled out,” and it now seemed that the more mobile
aeroplane--often with the British tri-colour rings upon its wings--had
taken its place. And it was one of those which Ronnie and Beryl knew
would be due over that Yorkshire moor next Thursday at midnight.
Ronnie spent the night at Harbury, and in the morning received a
telegram calling him urgently to Whitehall. On his return, he said but
little, though, from his smile, Beryl knew that he was satisfied.
Wednesday came, and in his brown overalls he spent nearly the whole day
with Collins in “The Hornet’s Nest.” They were getting the machine in
trim for a long night flight.
Both pilot and mechanic consumed many cigarettes as they worked, Ronnie
examining every stay and every instrument. He satisfied himself that
the Lewis gun, which could fire through the propeller, was in working
order, and he tested the silencer, which he brought out from the house
for that purpose, and then returned it to its place of safety from the
prying eyes of the enemy.
Now and then Beryl came out and watched the preparations.
Thursday dawned grey and overcast, with every indication of rain.
Indeed, rain fell at ten o’clock, but at eleven, it having cleared,
Ronnie took Collins, and they went up for a “flip” together in order to
make a final test.
Beryl and her sister stood in the meadow watching the machine ascend
higher and higher, until it had gained an altitude of fully twelve
thousand feet. Then it seemed to hover for a moment, after which, with
a long, graceful swoop, Ronnie commenced a series of aerial evolutions
which Beryl, as an accomplished air-woman, knew to be most difficult,
and showed to her what perfect control Ronald had over the machine. The
silencer was on, therefore no sound could be heard of the engines.
In about twenty minutes’ time Ronnie came lightly to earth, and pulled
up close to where Iris and her sister were standing.
“Everything going finely!” he shouted to Beryl, as he unstrapped
himself, and clambered out of the pilot’s seat.
Then, when he joined her, he said:
“As the crow flies the spot on the moor is about two hundred and thirty
miles from here. Therefore we ought to leave soon after seven in case
we lose our way.”
Then, after luncheon, they spent the afternoon studying maps and
marking directions by which to steer, by the lines of railway mostly.
Night flying, with the lights of towns extinguished, is always a
difficult matter, and, as Beryl knew by experience, it is extremely
easy to lose one’s way by a single mistake.
By seven o’clock darkness had already fallen; but the barometer, at
which both had glanced many times with anxious eyes, showed a slow,
steady rise, and with the direction of the wind, combined to create
excellent conditions for flying at high altitudes.
“The Hornet” had been wheeled out of its “nest,” and Beryl in her
fur-lined aviation kit, her leather cap and goggles, had strapped
herself in behind her lover, who, with a flash-lamp, was now busily
examining the row of instruments before him. Meanwhile Collins, on the
ground, shouted:
“Best of luck to you, sir, and also to Miss Beryl!”
“Thank you, Collins!” cried the girl. “We ought to be back by five.”
“All ready, Collins?” asked Ronnie at last sharply.
The mechanic sprang to the propeller.
“Contact, sir?” he asked.
Ronnie threw over the switch with a click. The mechanic swung the
big, four-bladed propeller over, when the engine started with noisy,
metallic clatter, increasing until it became a deep roar.
Ronnie was testing his engine. Finding it satisfactory, he quickly
throttled down. Collins took the “chocks” from beneath the wheels, and
the pilot “taxied” slowly across to the corner of the big field until,
gaining speed, he opened up suddenly, when the machine skimmed easily
off the ground, over the belt of trees, and away up into the void.
As they ascended, Beryl, gazing down, saw below a few faint lights to
the south-east, and knew that there lay the important town of H----,
blotted out at even that early hour of the evening, for the lights
visible would have only indicated a village in pre-war days.
In the sky further eastwards toward the sea was a slight tremor of
light showing that searchlights were already at work testing their
beams, and making oblong patches of light upon the clouds.
At ten thousand feet up, as the altimeter then showed, it was intensely
cold, and the girl buttoned up her fur-lined coat and fastened up her
wind-cuffs. The roar of the engine was too great, of course, to admit
of conversation. Ronnie had not switched on the silencer, as it impeded
speed, and after a long flight it might choke just at the very moment
when its services were most required.
Due north in the increasing darkness went “The Hornet,” skilfully
handled by the most intrepid of air-pilots, high over town, forest,
and pasture, hill and dale, as the hours crept slowly on.
Suddenly, however, Ronnie turned the machine, and began to circle over
a few scattered lights. Then Beryl recognised his uncertainty. Time
after time he searched for the railway line to York, but though both of
them strained their eyes they could not pick it up again.
Hence they were compelled, much to Ronnie’s chagrin, to make a descent
in a big grass-field, where, in the blackness, they made a rather rough
landing, and presently inquired their whereabouts of some villagers.
To their amazement they found that beneath the hill where they had
descended the railway line actually ran. And it was on account of the
long tunnel they had missed it.
So, ascending once more, they struck again due north by the compass,
and finding the line, flew along it over Doncaster to York. Then, still
continuing northwards, they reached Thirsk Junction, until five minutes
later as they were approaching Northallerton, intending to strike
westward and follow the line to Hawes, “The Hornet” developed serious
engine trouble, and Ronnie was forced again to descend, planing down
into an unploughed field.
For half-an-hour, aided actively by Beryl, he was occupied in making
a repair. It was then past eleven, and the girl expressed a hope that
they would be at the rendezvous by midnight.
“It will really be too bad if we arrive too late,” she added
apprehensively.
Ronnie did not reply. He was seriously contemplating giving up the
expedition. The engine trouble was a very serious one. They might
last out perhaps another hour, but “The Hornet” could never return to
Harbury with the engine in that state. This distressing fact, however,
he did not tell her.
“Hark!” cried Beryl suddenly. “Listen! Why, there’s a machine up--over
us!”
Ronald hold his breath. Yes, there was the distinct hum of a machine
coming up from the east, following the railway from the main line over
towards Hawes.
“Oh! do let’s go up. That may be Aylesworth’s friend,” suggested Beryl.
“I expect it is,” replied Ronnie grimly. “But with this engine there is
danger--very grave danger--Beryl, dear. Are you quite prepared to risk
it?”
“I’ll risk anything with you,” was the girl’s prompt reply. “We’ve
risked our lives in the air before, and we’ll do so again to-night. We
must not fail now that we’re within an ace of success.”
Her words spurred Ronnie to a supreme effort. With the hum of the
mysterious machine in his ears, he set his teeth; then with the spanner
in his hand he screwed the nut tightly, and without many further words
he told his well-beloved that all was ready. They both got in, and two
minutes later they were rising in the air, rapidly overhauling the
mysterious machine.
Those moments seemed hours to Beryl. She scarcely dared to breathe.
Ronnie had switched on the silencer, and they were now speeding through
the air without a sound, save for the shrill whistle of the wind
through the planes.
By the hum of the engine of the machine they were following they kept
silently in its wake, gradually overhauling it.
Suddenly they saw flashes of white light from it--signals to the
traitor Aylesworth in waiting below. Then they knew that they were not
mistaken.
Ronnie put every ounce into his crocked-up engine, knowing that if it
failed they might make a nose-dive fatal to them both. Like an arrow
he sped towards the aeroplane which had crept over the North Sea,
and across Yorkshire to meet the man who had promised those secret
despatches.
Beryl saw deep below the flashes of a lamp--“N. F.,” “N. F.,” in Morse.
Ronald Pryor saw it also and, suddenly turning the nose of his machine,
he made a circle in silence around the enemy aeroplane. Again he
circled much nearer. The German pilot was utterly ignorant of his
presence, so silently did he pass through the air, until, narrowing
the circle, he waited for the Fokker to plane down; then, in a flash,
he flew past, and, with his hand upon the Lewis gun, he showered a
veritable hail of lead upon it.
The Fokker reeled, and then nose-dived to earth, with--as was
afterwards found--its pilot shot through the brain, its petrol-tank
pierced in five places, and one of its wings hanging limp and broken,
such a terrible shower of lead had Pryor directed against it.
Beryl and Ronald Pryor had perforce to return by train to Harbury, but,
by previous arrangement, the man Aylesworth had been arrested, and was
duly tried by court-martial. It is known that he was found guilty and
condemned, but the exact sentence upon him will probably not be known
until after the declaration of peace.
And, after all, the doom of a traitor is best left unrecorded.