CONCERNS THE HIDDEN HAND.
One evening--the evening of June 14th, 1916, to be exact--Ronald Pryor
came forth through one of the long French windows which led out upon
the sloping lawn at Harbury Court, and gazed out upon the extensive and
picturesque landscape; the low ridge of hills was soft in the grey and
crimson of the summer afterglow.
With Beryl, and Iris, he had dined an hour ago, after which Beryl
had gone for a flight in “The Hornet.” She had been away more than
half-an-hour when, seated alone, he drained his liqueur, placed his
cigarette-end in the ash-tray, and glanced anxiously at his wrist-watch.
Then he had gone out into the calm June night.
Passing from the spacious gardens surrounding the Court--ill-kept
nowadays, for all the men were serving in the Army--he went down to
“The Hornet’s Nest.”
He opened the sliding door sufficiently to allow himself to enter,
and for the next hour he was busy within. At last he reappeared with
an old, wide-mouthed kitbag, similar to those used by hunting men in
pre-war days.
Carrying it across the field to the opposite corner, he opened it
beneath the high elm-tree which they were always compelled to avoid in
their ascents or descents. Then he took out a coil of black-enamelled
wire, the end of which bore a lead plummet. Carefully examining the
coil, he held it loosely in his hand and, stepping back a few paces,
quickly swung the lead around his head half-a-dozen times, and then,
with a sudden jerk, released it, sending it high up into the branches
of the tree, where it remained with its wire attached. A few feet down
the wire, towards the ground, there had been inserted a brown porcelain
insulator, while, as the airman paid out the wire, receding from the
tree as he did so, a second insulator came into view.
Having let out sufficient wire, he at last pegged its end to the
ground. Thus, from the grass to the tree, stretched up a long single
wire. From his square-mouthed bag he took out a small box of polished
mahogany and, opening it, there was disclosed within a complete little
wireless set. A small mat of copper gauze he took also from the bag
and, spreading it upon the damp grass as an “earth,” he connected up
his instruments with expert hand.
Presently he glanced at the watch on his wrist; by this time the
twilight was rapidly falling, the mists were rising, and a few sparks
of light could be seen twinkling deep down in the grey valley. Then
he removed his cap and, assuming the double head ’phones, carefully
adjusted his detector and listened attentively.
From anyone passing along the high road he was entirely hidden from
view. The possession of wireless was forbidden under heavy penalty by
the Defence of the Realm Act, but Ronnie Pryor was one of the fortunate
few whose permits for experiment had been recently renewed by the
Admiralty.
“H’m!” he exclaimed aloud. “There’s Norddeich going strong, sending
out the usual German official lies--and also the Eiffel Tower. Two
budgets of official war news at the same time!”
Again he listened with great patience and attention, as he knelt upon
the grass. The neat little installation was, of course, for receiving
only, there being no electrical current for transmission. A small,
round ebonite handle at the end of the box he turned backwards and
forwards very slowly, altering his wave-length ever and anon, making
it longer or shorter in order to “tune” himself to the message he was
apparently expecting.
Once again he glanced at his watch very anxiously. Then, for the next
three-quarters of an hour, while the dusk deepened into darkness, he
remained upon his patient vigil.
“At last!” he gasped aloud, as he switched on a little shaded lamp
which shone obliquely within the box; then he bent down, and, on a
small writing-pad, began to take down rapidly the letters he heard in
Morse code--an unintelligible jumble of the alphabet, each nine letters
being separated by a space.
Presently there ticked into his ears the three “shorts,” followed by
“long-short-long,” which signified “end of work.” Still bending to the
tiny light, he took from his pocket a little book. On consulting it,
he placed over each code-letter its de-coded equivalent, afterwards
reading it to his apparent satisfaction.
Then he rose, standing with his face to the north, and gazing over
the wide valley into the night sky. He lit a cigarette, and remained
there for a full quarter of an hour. Afterwards he consulted a map
from his pocket and then, lighting another cigarette, waited somewhat
impatiently. Now and then he could hear the roar of a car or a
motor-cycle passing along the high road at the back of him.
About three-quarters of an hour after the reception of the message,
Pryor connected up four dry batteries he had in his bag to a lamp with
a wide lens, which he placed on its back upon the ground, so that the
beams were directed upwards. Then again, after pulling down the wire,
he seated himself upon a root of the great tree and waited, listening
very attentively.
At last he heard a faint hum in the darkness--a low sound like the
distant buzzing of a bee.
It was approaching rapidly--an aeroplane high in the dark sky, for
neither moon nor stars showed that night. The machine was approaching
from the direction of London, yet, though he strained his eyes, he
could not distinguish it in that dark-blue vault above.
On it came rapidly in his direction. Into the electric circuit he had
put a little tapping-key and, touching it, he tapped out the Morse
letters: “X X D”--his own wireless call number.
Time after time he repeated the call “X X D--X X D!” at the same time
straining his eyes into the darkness.
Suddenly, almost exactly above him, he saw, like a tiny star in the
sky, a light twinkling. He read the message, and knew that his signal
had been seen and read.
Next second he tapped out upon the key--flashing it to the arriving
aeroplane--the direction of the light wind, afterwards opening up
the light to serve as a guide. The aeroplane, humming above in the
darkness, swept down lower and lower in half-mile spirals until, of a
sudden, a powerful searchlight beamed out from it, directed upon the
earth below; its pilot was looking for a safe landing-place.
Slowly it circled round and round until, a few minutes later, it came
to earth in the opposite corner of the field to that in which Ronnie
was standing. In an instant, with the cessation of the throbbing of the
engine, the light was shut off, and Pryor, having long ago packed up
his wireless, hastened across.
“Hullo!” he shouted into the darkness.
“Hullo, Ronnie!” answered a girl’s voice cheerily, and a few seconds
later Beryl Gaselee received a warm and fond caress.
“I got your message all right, darling!” the man exclaimed, while the
girl, in her workmanlike air-woman’s kit, stood before the propeller
and stretched her arms above her head after her long flight away
into Hampshire and back. By the light of Ronnie’s flash-lamp she was
revealed in her leather flying-cap, her hair tucked away beneath it,
her mackintosh confined at the waist by a wide belt, and, instead of a
skirt, brown mechanic’s overalls.
“I came across Bedford and St. Albans, but just beyond I had a terrible
fright. I was flying low in order to pick up a railway-line when, of a
sudden, a searchlight opened up from somewhere and I was attacked by
two anti-aircraft guns. One shell whistled within five yards of the
left plane of ‘The Hornet.’ Indeed, it was quite a miracle that I was
not winged.”
“But couldn’t the fools see the rings on the planes? Didn’t you bank in
order to show them?”
“Of course I did, but I was in a cloud, and they could not see me with
any accuracy. You see, I never gave word to headquarters that I was
going up. I quite forgot it.”
“Oh, well, in that case it is only natural that they would fire upon
any stray aircraft at night!” Ronnie replied. “But I got your message
all right, which proves that our wireless works well. Where were you
when you sent it?”
“I had flown about ten miles beyond Oxford. I had some trouble with the
engine, so I was late in starting,” she replied. “You left your kit in
the machine,” she added, and, climbing again into “The Hornet,” she
threw out a leather cap and a heavy mackintosh.
“Did you hear anything suspicious?” she asked, as he placed the bag
containing the wireless in the observer’s seat.
“Yes,” he replied. “It was just as we have guessed--enemy messages on
a short wave-length. Not very plain, to be sure, but they are being
transmitted, without a doubt. I heard you perfectly,” he added. “But we
haven’t much time to waste if we are to keep the appointment.”
“The ’bus is going beautifully,” Beryl said. “I should have had quite a
pleasant trip if it were not for the ‘Archie-fire.’”
“They may believe that the enemy send aeroplanes over to us at night
painted to resemble ours. That is the reason you got peppered, no
doubt,” he said. “We must give that station a wide berth in future.”
Climbing into the pilot’s seat he examined the map set beneath the
small electric bulb, and afterwards slipped on his airman’s coat and
cap, and buckled the strap round his waist. Then, after she had swung
over the propeller, he helped his well-beloved into the observer’s seat
into which she strapped herself.
With a quick bumpy run they sped over the pasture, and then, on the
lower ground, they rose with a roar of the engine, turned and, passing
over the high road, circled over the opposite hill. Higher and higher
Ronnie went up into the starless darkness, making great circles in
order to get up five thousand feet.
As the speed increased in the darkness the machine, thrusting its nose
still upwards and lying over resolutely in its long spiral climb,
throbbed onward until, at a thousand feet, there came to both a
delicious sense of relief as they moved along on an even keel.
For over an hour they flew until they were high above the long, steep
High Street of Guildford, where only a few twinkling lights could be
seen below, owing to the excellent precautions of its Chief Constable.
At that altitude, from the number of lights, an enemy airman would
never have suspected it to be a town at all.
It was not long, however--even while they were circling above the
town and Ronnie was taking his bearings--before two intense beams
from searchlights shot out and almost blinded the aviators. For fully
two minutes the lights followed them. Then the watchers below, having
satisfied themselves that it was a friendly ’plane, shut off again, and
all was darkness.
They had flown perhaps nine miles from Guildford when, of a sudden,
almost directly below them, there sprang up four points of red
light--lit simultaneously by an electrical wire--which showed them
their landing-place.
Down they swept until Ronnie, an expert in landing at night, found
himself in a large grass-field. Collins came running forward eagerly to
welcome him.
The four lights were at once extinguished, and the engine being shut
off, all was quiet again.
“Well, sir, I think you’re quite right,” Collins said at last. “I’ve
been watching these two days, and there’s something mysterious in the
wind.”
“Have you seen them?” asked Ronnie eagerly.
“Yes. A youngish man and a stout old woman. When I got down I found
Shawfield to be only a tiny place with one old inn, The Bell, and I
knew that a stranger’s movements would be well watched. So I went three
miles farther, and took a room at The George, in Bricklehurst.”
“How far is the farm from here?” asked Beryl.
“Oh, about a mile--not more, miss! Behind that wood yonder,” he
replied. “They had a visitor this afternoon--a tall, fair, well-dressed
man. He’s probably spending the night there. I watched him arrive at
Shawfield Station, and the man who calls himself Cator met him, and
drove him in the car to the Manor Farm.”
“I wonder who the visitor is?” remarked Pryor.
“He is probably one of the gang,” Beryl suggested. “No doubt he has
come down from London to see them in secret. The woman poses as Cator’s
mother, I believe.”
“Yes, miss. I’ve discovered that they bought the Manor Farm in
1913, and that Cator had an excellent assistant, a Belgian, it was
supposed--or at least he gave himself out to be that. Cator erected
new farm-buildings that you will see--nice, red-brick structures with
corrugated iron roofs, and spent a large sum of money on improvements.”
“New buildings--eh?” sniffed Ronnie in suspicion.
“Yes, that’s just the point, sir. But let’s get over there, and I’ll
show you one or two things that I regard as suspicious.”
Thereupon the pair, guided by Collins, threw off their air-clothes
and crossed the field to a gate where a footpath led into a dark wood,
the air-mechanic switching on a pocket-torch to light their way. They
conversed only in whispers, lest there should be anyone lurking in the
vicinity, and on traversing the wood, found themselves out upon a broad
highway. Then, after going perhaps a quarter of a mile, they turned
into a second wood and continued through it until, at its farther
boundary, they saw before them, silhouetted against the night sky, a
cluster of farm-buildings, with the farmhouse itself close by.
“Hush!” urged Collins. Then, drawing his companions near him, he halted
and whispered, “See that long building--away from the others? That’s
where the mystery lies!”
They both strained their eyes, and could see distinctly the long,
low-built structure straight before them.
“Follow me,” Collins whispered. “Be careful to make no noise. There are
two dogs in the yard yonder, but they’re chained up.”
“That’s a mercy!” Beryl remarked, as the pair moved slowly after the
mechanic.
Suddenly, when they came out upon an ill-made track which was evidently
a byway, Collins stopped and, turning his flash-lamp upon the ground,
pointed out the recent marks of wheels, the broad, flat-tyred wheels of
a motor-lorry.
“See what’s been here of late--eh?” he whispered. “Look!” and he slowly
flashed the light across the road. “It’s been here quite half-a-dozen
times recently--on different nights or days.”
“Yes,” replied Ronnie. “You are quite right! Do those tracks lead up
to the building?”
“Yes. Come and see.”
They went, and before the big, heavy doors which were locked so
securely they saw, by the faint light the man showed, marks of where
the lorry had backed right into the building.
“Then it must have a concrete floor!” remarked Ronnie as he examined
the tracks intently. “Several lorries have been here, without a doubt.
But might they not have been carting grain away?”
“No. Because no threshing has been done here for over two years.”
“Dare we go near the house?” Beryl asked.
“No, miss; it wouldn’t be wise. We’d have to pass through the yard, and
the dogs would give tongue at once.”
“Oh, we mustn’t alarm them!” Ronnie said. “If we are to be successful
we must do everything in secret and spring a real surprise. Only,” he
added, “we must make quite certain that they are guilty.”
“Of course,” Beryl agreed. “But how?”
“Ah, that’s the point!” said Ronnie, taking out his own torch, and
again examining the tracks of the lorry in the soft ground. With the
aid of a folding foot-rule he drew forth from his pocket, he took
measurements at several points in the road, then said:
“It is not always the same lorry that comes here. One is heavier than
the other. The one which came most recently is the larger of the two,
and from the depth of the rut it must have been loaded to its capacity.
See there, where it sank into a soft place!”--and he indicated a spot
where one wheel had sunk in very deeply.
“Further,” he went on, “I judge, by the recent dry weather, that those
lorries have been here at intervals of about three days. They came from
some considerable distance, no doubt. The last was here yesterday, in
which case the next would be here the day after to-morrow.”
“Then I can stay and see with my own eyes?” suggested Collins.
“Exactly my idea,” his master replied. “You could be an actual witness,
and make a statement before I dare act.”
At that moment all three were startled by hearing voices. People were
coming out of the farmhouse. The dogs in the yard barked--showing that
the voice of one of the persons was that of a stranger--the man from
London.
“Quick!” cried Collins. “Let’s get into hiding somewhere. I hope they
won’t let those infernal dogs loose, or they’ll soon scent us out!”
“I hope not!” said Beryl, who, though a lover of dogs, held farm dogs,
in such circumstances, in distinct suspicion.
All three sped quickly back, crouching behind a wooden fence close by,
just as the fitful light of a lantern could be seen approaching. Three
persons were revealed--the man Cator, his guest, and the fat old woman.
Ronnie and Beryl strained their ears to catch their conversation, but
at first they could not distinguish a single word.
Suddenly the woman, with a loud laugh, spoke more distinctly. Yes! She
spoke in German, the man from London answering in the same language!
They walked to the door of the long, low building which, after some
difficulty, the man Cator unlocked, leaving his old hurricane-lamp
outside. The trio went in; therefore it was plain one of them carried
an electric torch.
“I suppose they are showing him their handiwork--eh?” remarked Beryl in
a whisper.
“No doubt. He has come down from London to make an inspection, it
seems.”
They could hear voices speaking in German within the building, but
dared not emerge from their place of concealment to peer within. Ronnie
had suggested it, but Beryl urged a judicious course.
“No, let Collins remain and watch,” she said in a whisper. “Every
moment we remain here means graver peril to our plans. If they scent
the slightest suspicion, then all our efforts will be in vain. Have you
noticed over there? I’ve been looking at it for some minutes, and I
don’t think my eyes deceive me.”
“What?” asked Ronnie.
“Why, look at that chimney-stack upon the farmhouse! Can’t you see
something--a wire running from it right away to that high tree on the
left?”
“Yes--by Gad! That’s so, Beryl! Why, they’ve got wireless here! They
evidently string up an aerial at night!”
“Well, I haven’t noticed that before!” said Collins. “But no doubt
you’re right, sir. That’s a wireless aerial, without question.”
“Yes. But let’s get away,” Ronnie urged. “They may release those
horrible dogs for a run, and then it would be all up.”
So the trio, creeping cautiously, receded by the dark path along which
they had reached the Manor Farm, and were soon back again in the Monk’s
Wood, as Collins told them it was named.
Back again at the spot where they had left “The Hornet” they held
council.
“You remain here, Collins,” said Pryor. “Watch the place, and see
what arrives. The next lorry may come along the day after to-morrow,
or the day after that. You will see what its load is. Then, having
made certain, come back straight to Harbury. We’ll wait for you there.
Telephone me, but not from the locality. You understand?”
“Very well, sir,” replied the air-mechanic, who, in a rather shabby
blue suit, wore a brass badge as one doing national work.
Ronnie and Beryl climbed back into the machine, fastened the straps
round themselves, and made all ready for their long flight from Surrey,
across London, to Harbury Court.
They said good-bye to Collins, who, taking the propeller, pulled it
over, while Pryor threw over the contact.
There was no response.
“Hullo! What’s up?” asked Ronnie.
“Don’t know, sir,” Collins said. “Try again.”
They both tried again--and again, but no response could be got out of
the engine. “The Hornet” had lost its sting!
Both pilot and observer descended again to make a minute investigation.
Both of them were conversant with every point of an aero-engine, but
neither could discover the fault. “The Hornet” had simply broken down!
For nearly an hour the trio worked hard to get a move on the engine,
but without success.
At last Ronald declared that it would be best to wait until dawn, so
they sat down upon the grass beneath the hedge, smoking cigarettes and
chatting.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Ronnie. “If it is really true what we suspect,
how we shall surprise them--eh?”
“Yes, dear,” said his well-beloved. “But Collins must have absolute and
undeniable evidence.”
“Of course. We cannot act without that. See over there--the faint light
in the sky.”
And he pointed to the pale light, eastward, which heralded the dawn.
Already the birds were twittering, and away somewhere a dog was barking
furiously. In pre-war times the chimes of village church clocks would
have struck the hour. But now, in fear of enemy aircraft, all chimes
were silent.
Slowly the light stole over the hill, and presently all three walked
over to “The Hornet” for another minute examination. Within ten minutes
Collins had found the fault--quite a usual but unexpected one--and five
minutes afterwards the engine was ready for the ascent.
Pryor climbed into the pilot’s seat to test it, and did so half-a-dozen
times before he pronounced his verdict that the machine was in a fit
condition to fly back over London.
At last, when Ronnie and Beryl had climbed in and settled themselves,
the mechanic swung over the propeller, the engine roared, and a few
moments later they had left the earth, speeding higher and higher in
the direction of London, on their return to Harbury Court.
Collins, as soon as they had left, wound up the electric wires
connecting the little tin pans of petrol at each corner of the field,
and hid the pans themselves in the hedge. Then, having removed all
traces of the machine’s presence there, he started back on his
three-mile walk to the obscure little village in which he had taken up
his quarters.
Next day he relaxed his vigilance on the Manor Farm and, with an
elderly man, a retired schoolmaster whom he had met in the bar of The
George, he went for a day’s fishing in the river which ran outside the
village.
The old man, whose name was Haddon, had a wide knowledge of local
affairs, and as soon as Collins mentioned Mrs. Cator and her son, he
exclaimed:
“Ah! They had a very good manager in Mr. Bush, but he went away about
a month before the war. He was a German, though he called himself
Belgian.”
“How do you know he was a German?” asked Collins.
“Well, because my daughter’s in the post-office here, and she says that
once or twice letters came for him bearing a Dutch stamp, and addressed
to ‘Herr Büch,’ which is a German name.”
“Yes. That’s curious, isn’t it?”
“And there were some other curious facts, too. Before the war two
foreigners very often came down to the Manor Farm to spend the
week-end--gentlemen from London. I met them once or twice and heard
them speaking in German.”
“But Mr. Cator isn’t German, is he?” asked Collins.
“Who knows? Some Germans who’ve lived here for years speak English so
well that you can’t tell,” declared the ex-schoolmaster.
“Have you any reason for supposing that Cator is a German?” inquired
Collins. “If he’s German, then what about his mother?”
“Well, it doesn’t follow that his mother is German. She may have been
an English girl who married a German, you know.”
“If so, she certainly might be pro-German,” Collins remarked, as they
sat together on the river-bank eating their sandwiches.
“I certainly think she is, because my daughter tells me that old
Emma Green’s girl, who was housemaid at the Manor Farm when war was
declared, says that Mrs. Cator, her son, and one of those gentlemen
from London drank the health of the Kaiser in champagne that night.”
“Did the girl tell your daughter that?”
“Yes, she did. And I believe her.”
Collins was silent. These facts he had learnt were highly important.
“You see,” Mr. Haddon went on, “nowadays you dare not say anything
about anybody you suspect, for fear of being had up for libel. The law
somehow seems to protect the Germans in our midst. I feel confident
that the Cators are a mysterious pair, and I told my suspicions to Mr.
Rouse, our police-sergeant in the village. But he only shrugged his
shoulders and said that as far as he knew they were all right. So why,
after that, should anybody trouble?”
“Is it not an Englishman’s duty to oust the enemy?” Collins queried.
“Yes, it is; but if the enemy can live under laws which protect them,
what can the average man do?”
“Why, do his best to assist the authorities! The latter are not so
blind as they lead the public to believe, I assure you,” laughed
Collins, who, having learnt all he could from the ex-schoolmaster,
devoted the remainder of the afternoon to angling, and with fair result.
Next day he strolled, at about ten o’clock in the morning, in the
direction of the Manor Farm, apparently taking a morning walk. When he
had gone about a quarter of a mile, he met the man Cator in a golf
suit and cap, accompanied by the stranger who had come from London two
days previously, and a third man, tall, elderly, with a short, greyish
beard, and rather shabbily-dressed.
As they passed, Collins felt instinctively that the grey-bearded man,
having eyed him closely, made some remark to his companions which
caused them to turn back and look after him. The air-mechanic was,
however, too discreet to turn himself, but went on and, walking in a
circle, gave the Manor Farm a wide berth.
That evening, however, as soon as it grew dark, he approached the
place, taking up his position at the same spot where he had stood with
his master and Miss Beryl--a point from which he had a good view of the
long, low farm-building.
He sank down into some undergrowth which concealed him and lit a
cigarette, there being nobody near to smell the smoke. It was eight
o’clock when he arrived there, and the time passed very slowly. Now
and then the dogs in the yard barked furiously, once at hearing
his footsteps, and again when somebody opened the back door of the
farmhouse and came outside. Now and then a horse neighed, and once a
dog barking far away set the two watch-dogs barking in response.
The hours went by, but Collins, lying on his back sometimes smoking,
sometimes dozing, kept a most patient vigil.
Suddenly, however, just before midnight, as a glance at his watch
revealed, he heard the sound of a car coming up the hill. He sprang
up and listened. It was coming up behind him--up the byway which led
through the wood to the farm!
His heart beat quickly. Pryor had been right. A lorry visited the Manor
Farm every three days.
Suddenly he caught a glimpse of the oil side-lights, and a few minutes
later a big motor-lorry, heavily laden, approached and backed towards
the wide doors of the farm-building. The driver having blown his horn,
Cator and his visitor came out, and, when the doors were unlocked and
wheeled open, the lorry was backed right into the building.
At once all three men began unloading the lorry, whereupon Collins
crept up to ascertain what was being taken out.
Crouching behind the lorry he saw a number of full petrol tins being
handed out and stored away within, after which came small, square
wooden cases, which were handled very gingerly, and placed quietly upon
the concrete floor of the well-filled building. Each case bore a red
disc, and by the manner in which the driver warned Cator and his friend
who handled them, Collins learnt that they were high explosives.
The lorry had been practically laden with these cases, save for twenty
tins of petrol, and all were safely transferred into the store. After
this the driver went into the house for some refreshment, and in the
meantime Collins, by the aid of his flash-lamp, was enabled to slip
inside the building and make a quick examination of its contents.
What he saw showed plainly that within that place was stored a great
quantity of petrol and explosives--an enemy base for the use of the
Huns who so vainly hoped one day to reach Britain.
Two minutes later, ere the trio again emerged from the house, the
air-mechanic was on his way back to the inn at Bricklehurst, well
satisfied.
On the following Friday, at nine o’clock in the evening, Beryl climbed
into “The Hornet,” which stood in its meadow behind Harbury Court ready
for a night flight. It had been a strenuous day getting ready, but the
machine was now in perfect running order.
Ronnie, in his air-kit with leather cap and big goggles, climbed in and
buckled the strap round his waist.
“Well, let’s hope for good luck!” cried Beryl standing at the propeller.
“Right, darling!” replied Ronnie. “Let her rip!”
Next moment the girl swung round the propeller. Then she climbed in,
and a few moments later the ’plane sped over the grass and soon crossed
the roof of the house, and was away.
An hour later, with the lever of the silencer thrown back, they were
hovering noiselessly, having passed over Guildford and away south,
above a fire they saw below them--a hay-rick which belonged to the
Cators. Collins had ignited it at a given time that night, in order to
serve as their guide. The rick was in a field fully half-a-mile from
the farm, and from above Ronnie and his companion could see that the
local fire brigade were around it.
The light, however, plainly illuminated the Manor Farm, and the
building containing the secret store. Twice Ronnie passed over it,
flying high, then once again he crossed directly above the farm. His
hand was upon one of the little levers controlling his bombs, but,
seeing that he had passed slightly to the south, he turned her nose,
and re-passed once again in silence.
Suddenly he touched the three upper levers in swift succession, one
after the other.
There was a swish of air below in the darkness, and as they watched,
three blood-red flashes showed far down almost simultaneously.
A noise like an earthquake rent the air, a great column of flame shot
up, and a huge explosion resulted, lighting the country for miles
around, and sending _débris_ high into the darkness, while at the same
time the terrible concussion tilted up “The Hornet” until she very
nearly had a nasty side-slip.
Ronnie opened up his searchlight, shining it down upon the farm,
revealing to their gaze only a wrecked and burning mass of ruins. The
whole place, including the farmhouse, had, by the terrible force of the
explosives stored there in secret, been swept clean away and levelled
to the ground.
A few minutes later “The Hornet” turned upon her homeward flight, and
to this day it is very naturally believed by the public that enemy
aircraft visited the spot on that memorable night.