"Being some Chapters of Secret History" (continued 3)

I had revealed much to Inspector Barton before Roseye’s disappearance. I had told him of my suspicions of Eastwell, but I suppose he had—as natural to, an investigator of crime—regarded those suspicions as the natural outcome of a man’s jealousy. But they were not, because I had never been jealous of the man—not until we sat there on the lawn before the hotel, and she had told me how she had spent an afternoon at the theatre in his company.

As a matter of fact jealousy had never entered my head. Previously I had always regarded Eastwell as quite a good fellow, full of the true stamina of a patriot. He had been, I knew, full of schemes for the future of aviation in England ever since he had taken his first flap at the aerodrome. Once, indeed, he had serious thoughts, in the pre-war days, of putting up as Parliamentary candidate for a Yorkshire borough. But the matter fell through because the Opposition, on their part, ran a man whose chances were assured—an Anglo-Indian colonel who had passed through every local distinction, from being a member of the local Board of Guardians to becoming a DL. Against such odds Eastwell could not fight. In the great game of politics it has ever been that the local man who spends his money with the local butcher, baker and candlestick-maker, is usually returned with a thumping majority.

The man from afar, the man with a mission, the man who knows his job and will dare to raise his voice in the House to declaim his country’s shortcomings, will usually be jeered at as a “carpetbagger” and hopelessly outpaced and outvoted.

I knew this. I had seen it long ago.

As I sat there at Roseye’s side I fell to wondering—wondering whether she had actually played an open, straightforward game.

Or was she deceiving me!

Which?

Chapter Fifteen.

Concerns Harold Hale.

Christmas came, but it brought no relaxation to Teddy, or to myself.

We were working hard at our scheme out at Gunnersbury, making experiment after experiment, many being failures, with a few successes.

Of Eastwell we saw nothing, for he had flown up to the north-east coast in order to watch some evolutions being carried out by the anti-aircraft corps, and had not returned.

Sir Charles had now given Roseye permission to assist us in our work and, indeed, one morning in the first week of the New Year she made her first flight since that day of her disappearance.

My mind, however, was by no means at rest. After my own experiences I was careful to examine and to fly her machine several times around the aerodrome before I would allow her to go up. If my machine had been tampered with in the way it had, then there was but little doubt that an attempt might be made against her.

She had gone for about an hour when I saw her returning, a tiny speck in the clear sky coming from the south-west, and flying very high. When at last she landed and I handed her out of the pilot’s seat, she put up her big goggles and, flushed with satisfaction, cried:

“I’ve had such a splendid wind behind me! The weather is quite perfect. How good it feels to be out once again, Claude!”

“Yes, dear,” I answered, as we strolled together over towards the hangars, whence one of the school-buses had just begun to flap. “I should like to go up but, as you know, they are busy putting in my second engine for night-flying, and to drive the dynamo. I fear it won’t be ready for quite another fortnight yet.”

“What speed do you really expect to develop?” she asked, much interested.

“In order to overtake a Zeppelin I must, at least, be able to fly eighty miles an hour,” was my reply. “And I must also be able to fly as slowly as thirty-five in order to economise fuel and to render the aim accurate as well as to make night-landing possible.”

“Are you certain that you will be able to do it?” she asked, a little dubiously I thought. She knew that, as far as our apparatus for the direction of the intense electric current was concerned, it was practically perfect. Yet she had, more than once, expressed her doubt as to whether my monoplane, with its improvements of my own design, would be able to perform what I so confidently expected of it.

“Of course one can be certain of nothing in this world, dear,” was my reply. “But by all the laws of aerodynamics it should, when complete, be able to do what I require. I must be able to carry fuel for twelve hours cruising at low speed, so as to enable me to chase an airship to the coast, if necessary. Further, I must, in order to be successful, be able to climb to ten thousand feet in not more than twenty minutes. You see,” I explained, “I am trying to have the engines silenced, and I am fitting up control-gear for two pilots, so as to allow one to relieve the other, and, further, I have designed the alterations whereby either Teddy or myself can have equal facilities to work the searchlight as well as the deadly current.”

“I do hope it will be a success. You have had so many failures, dear,” she said, as we stood together, watching Teddy make a descent, for he was up testing his engine.

“Yes, that first magnetic wave idea proved a failure,” I said regretfully. “And why, I can’t yet discover. My first idea was to create an intensified magnetic wave which would have the effect of ‘seizing’ the working parts of the Zeppelin engines, and putting them out of action. For instance, from your aeroplane you would direct this wave against the Zeppelin and bring its engines gradually into a state of immobility. The natural act of the Zeppelin engineer, on finding that his engine was slowing down, would be to admit more fuel for a few moments. On the sudden release of the arresting medium the engine would ‘pick-up’ violently and blow the heads out of the cylinders, thereby causing the explosion which we desire to create.”

“Your experiments were all in secret,” Roseye remarked. “The theory seems sound enough. Curious that it did not work!”

“Yes. Even now I can’t, for the life of me, discover the reason,” I replied. “Yet we have, happily, tested this new apparatus of ours, and we know it is feasible as soon as ever we can get its weight further reduced, and the ray intensified.”

“And the sooner you can do that, the better,” my well-beloved declared. “Before very long, at the present rate of increase, we shall, I expect, see Zeppelins of a much greater size.”

“True,” I remarked, as I watched Teddy spring out of his bus, and make his way across the aerodrome in our direction. “No time should be lost. To be effective the aeroplane will have to be able to climb to 18,000 feet, and even remain aloft at that height for hours to lie in wait for the airship. The airship of one year hence will inevitably be a much more formidable machine than the present Zeppelin.”

“But we must be most careful to keep the secret, Claude,” she urged. “The enemy must not know it, or they may combat us!”

I was silent for a few moments. Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that strange enemy message in cipher that had been found in her card-case.

What could be the explanation of that mystery? It was plain that the enemy were in possession of some facts and, further, that at all hazards, and regardless of all risks, they intended to discover our secret.

I disregarded her remark, merely answering:

“I fear the Zeppelin menace will be serious in the North Sea before many months. It is only the bad weather which protects us.”

The alterations to my machine were being carried on by a first-class firm at Willesden, therefore, at Teddy’s suggestion, all three of us ran over in the car in order to inspect the work, which we found progressing most favourably.

The foreman engineer, a big fat, elderly man, just as we were about to leave the premises, called me aside and, in a confidential tone, exclaimed:

“Excuse me, sir. But did you send a gentleman named Hale here?”

“Hale?” I repeated, looking at him in surprise. “I know nobody of that name!”

“Well—here’s his card,” said the engineer. “He called yesterday afternoon, and told me that you’d sent him, and that he had your authority to look at your machine.”

I took the rather soiled card, and saw upon it the name: “Harold Hale—National Physical Laboratory.”

I held it in my hand in surprise.

“A Government official!” I exclaimed in wonder. “I gave no such permission!” I declared. “As I have repeatedly said, these alterations you are making are strictly in secret.”

“That’s what I told him, sir.”

“You didn’t let him see the work, I hope?” I asked anxiously.

“Not very likely, sir,” was the man’s reply. “I asked him for a written authorisation, but he said he’d left it in his office. There was a good deal of swank about him, I thought. He seemed to have a swelled head.”

“Well—what happened?” I inquired.

“Oh! He became very officious-like—said he was a Government inspector of aircraft, and demanded to see what alterations you were making in your machine. My reply was to tell him that when he brought a letter from you, I’d show him—and not before.”

“Excellent!” I said. “Then he didn’t produce any credentials?”

“None. But he argued with me for a long time—told me that I had no right to deny him access to information required for official purposes; that I was liable under the Defence of the Realm Act, and all sorts of other bunkum. In reply, I merely told him to go along to the office and see Mr Smallpiece, our manager—whom I knew to be up at the London office,” added the foreman with a grin.

“What kind of man was he? Describe him,” I urged.

“Well—he was about forty I should say—round-faced, with a little close-cropped black moustache. He was well dressed—a dark-blue overcoat with velvet collar, and a grey plush hat. He came in a taxi.”

“Ah! If we could find the driver, we might perhaps discover who he was,” I exclaimed.

“Well, sir, I suspected him, somehow. I didn’t like him. So I took the number of the taxi. You’ll see it on the back of the card.”

I looked, and there found a number scribbled in pencil.

“By Jove!” I cried. “Most excellent. I’ll soon find out what his movements were. Thank you very much,” I added. “Remember nobody is to know anything whatever of the work in progress. That man may have been a Spy.”

“That’s just exactly what I put him down to be, sir!” declared the foreman. “But trust me. Nobody shall know anything.”

When I rejoined Roseye and Teddy they were inquisitive—and very naturally—as to what the foreman had been telling me. But I kept my own counsel, determined to make investigations alone.

We drove back to town and lunched in the restaurant at the Piccadilly Hotel. Teddy had suggested the Automobile Club, but I had overruled him, and we went to the Piccadilly instead. At the club there was far too much flying “shop”—and I wanted time to think.

At three o’clock I ran Roseye home, dropping Teddy on the way, and then returned to Shaftesbury Avenue.

As I entered, Theed told me that his father had been up to say that on the previous night there had been some strangers about the shed at Gunnersbury. He had heard footsteps around the place at about three o’clock in the morning, but on going out he could discover nobody. He had taken out his big heavy Browning pistol which I had bought for him, and he had told his own son that he regretted that he had not caught the intruders.

Here was another source of suspicion! It confirmed my belief that the Invisible Hand had been laid once more upon us, and, further, that whoever directed it was alike most daring and unscrupulous.

“That’s most curious!” I said, in reply to Theed. “Your father seems to be having quite a lively time at night out there!”

“Yes. He does, sir. He’s convinced that somebody is watching to find out what’s going on—spies, he declares.”

“No, no, Theed,” I laughed, in order to hearten him. “There’s far too much bunkum talked about spies, and far too many sensational rumours on every hand. Tell your father that he’s becoming nervous. Surely he ought not to be after all his long police service!”

I only uttered those words for effect. I knew that Theed would bully the old man, and tell him that he was suffering from nerves. Every son loves to jeer at his father, be he peer or peasant.

I passed into my room and took up the telephone.

In a few moments I was on to my friend Professor Appleton, the Director of the National Physical Laboratory, that department which, for years, had studied aeronautics.

“I don’t follow you, Mr Munro,” he said, when I told him the facts. “What name do you say?”

“Hale,” was my reply. “H-a-l-e,” and I spelt it.

“We’ve nobody of that name. There must surely be some mistake!”

“But he came with a visiting-card,” I said. “He went to the firm of engineers who are making certain alterations in my monoplane, and demanded of the foreman the right to examine what was in progress. He told them at Willesden that he was an official of your Department, sent by you, with authority from myself.”

“Well, Mr Munro,” replied the professor, in that quiet, matter-of-fact way of his, “this is the first I’ve ever heard of any Mr Hale. He certainly has never been sent by us. In fact I was entirely unaware, until this moment, that you had any experiments in progress.”

“Really, professor, I’m awfully sorry to trouble you,” I said. “But I’m only trying to do my little bit—my very small bit—in the war. Thank you for telling me this. One never knows when one meets enemies. The Germans are so clever, so practical, and so subtle.”

“They are,” he answered. “Be wary, my dear Munro. If you are carrying out experiments upon any extensive scale you may be quite certain that somebody in enemy pay is watching. I have long seen it—long before the outbreak of war.”

Here again we had come up against the dead wall of fact.

“Then you think that the stranger was an enemy spy?” I asked.

“Well, in face of the facts, and of what I myself know, I’m perfectly certain of it,” the professor said. “I have no knowledge whatever of any person called Harold Hale. He evidently went out to Willesden to try and obtain certain knowledge, yet, by the sturdy attitude of the foreman whom you mention, he was defeated. Truly the wily and dastardly plots of our dear-brother-Germans—as they were called by some irresponsible Englishmen those hot August days of the declaration of war—have been amazing. It seems to me, Munro,” added the voice over the wire, “that if you are wary and watchful you may discover something that may be of unusual interest to the Intelligence Department.”

Then in my ear there was a loud buzz, followed by a sharp click, and all became silent.

Chapter Sixteen.

At Holly Farm.

Those constant proofs of the enemy’s eager inquisitiveness were, I here freely admit, very disconcerting.

We seemed surrounded by spies.

A dastardly attempt had been made to kill me, while some evil—what, I knew not—had happened to my well-beloved. It often struck me as most peculiar why she should preserve that strict secrecy regarding her whereabouts through those weeks when she had been missing.

Her terror of the mysterious woman whom she so constantly described as possessing the eyes of a leopard, together with the unbalanced condition of her brain, were, in themselves, solid proof that she had passed through some horrifying and terrible experience. Besides, had she not admitted that she had existed in what she herself had termed “a living tomb?”

So evident was it that we were being watched by some persons who intended, at all hazards, to discover the secret of our directive electrical apparatus that Teddy and I now adopted a new scheme. Each evening, after concluding our experiments, instead of taking the brown deal box back to my rooms, both my friend and myself disconnected the essential parts of the apparatus, each taking part of it home for safe keeping, thus leaving only the shell to be inspected by any intruder who might make a further visit to the shed.

Old Theed, however, kept a good look out and, as twice he had reported suspicious persons in the vicinity at night, he always carried his Browning pistol.

A fortnight had passed and my newly-arranged monoplane was nearing completion. Daily I went out to Willesden to superintend, and make certain alterations which had occurred to me since I had adopted my new design.

That more Zeppelin raids were expected everybody knew, and none better than myself.

The weather in the last fortnight of January 1916 was bad, and many people were declaring that the German airships would not dare to venture out except in calm conditions.

Some of the boys were discussing that point at Hendon one afternoon.

Teddy was inclined to argue as the public argued, that Zeppelins were affected by weather conditions, and advanced many theories of fogs, clouds, rain, snow, and the barometer.

“Then you don’t think inclement weather any protection, Claude?” asked my friend, while the others all listened in silence.

“No,” I said. “I quite agree with the arguments put forward on a basis of fact by many writers in the press. Of course Zeppelins, like every other craft not independent of the weather, prefer to sally forth in calms or light winds. But the utmost one can say is, first, that the calmer the weather the likelier a raid is to occur; and, secondly, that raids are less likely to occur in broad moonlight than on dark nights.”

“Then, my dear fellow,” whispered Teddy into my ear, in a tone so low that the others could not hear, “it is on one of the dark nights that we must make our trial flight—eh?”

“Well, according to the latest yarns,” remarked a fellow named Ainley, “the newest Zeppelins are armoured, and these very large craft have a gross lift of over thirty tons.”

“That is not much larger than the Zeppelins existing when war broke out,” I said, “but, of course, it must be admitted that even a small increase of size enlarges an airship’s capabilities and range. The top speed of the new thousand horse-power type is said to be about sixty-two miles an hour, but driving at such high speed must involve a heavy consumption of petrol.”

“What about climbing?” asked Ainley. “You’ve made Zeppelins a study, Munro. Tell us your opinion?”

“Well, in order to escape, more than one German airship has risen, we know, to 10,000 feet, but that was only in case of great emergency, and meant sacrifice of load and great waste of gas. You see, if a Zeppelin is over a town and is discharging her bombs and consuming her petrol, her natural tendency would be to rise. Probably the new type of super-Zeppelin could, I should say, rise 4,000 to 5,000 feet, but it must be remembered that it cannot, with impunity, go to 12,000 or 15,000 feet because of the density of the atmosphere.”

“Cover Great Britain with up-to-date ‘Archies.’ That’s my opinion—and one shared by many competent writers on the subject,” Ainley remarked, whereupon Teddy and I exchanged glances.

Little did that small group of pilots dream of the great surprise which we had “up our sleeve.”

A few days later—the First of February to be exact—the country was startled by the news published in the morning papers that on the previous night no fewer than six Zeppelins had flown over some Midland counties, dropping a large number of bombs, and killing and injuring many innocent women and children.

People who read the accounts stood aghast. Then, once again, came the cry from the big populous centres in the Midlands that warning of the approach of enemy aircraft should be given, and once again the papers were flooded with letters from indignant readers making all sorts of wild suggestions how to combat the Zeppelin peril. On top of this, however, came the welcome news that the L19, one of the raiders, had been found by a trawler in a sinking condition in the North Sea.

At least one of the barbaric baby-killers had got its just deserts.

Personally, I felt deeply moved by this latest dastardly invasion. That there must be an end to “traditions,” to political speech-making, to conferences and to promises of imaginary “nests of hornets,” was now clear. The homes of Englishmen were threatened with destruction. Germany had adopted a new mode of warfare that must change everything. Therefore, happily, unfettered by red tape, and unattached to any naval or military branch of the Service, but merely an experimenter, I intended, at the earliest moment, to put my directive wave to the crucial test.

During the past week we had not been idle a moment, and Teddy and I, after more failures, had at last been able to reduce the weight of our apparatus by nearly one-half, while we had been able to more than double the intensity of the current since that well-remembered night when we had tested it upon our wireless-pole while strangers had lurked unseen in the vicinity.

My monoplane was at last completed, and ready for delivery. All three of us became greatly excited, for after so many months of patient experimenting and designing, all was now ready for a practical trial in the air.

Lionel had returned from the North, but was gone to France in connexion with some trials of a new French monoplane at the aerodrome at St. Valéry-en-Caux. Therefore he was in ignorance of our pending experiments.

That we were being closely watched by spies, and that our every movement was being noted, we knew quite well. Indeed, Roseye seemed, curiously enough, to be filled with serious apprehensions.

Because of this, I decided not to fly from Hendon, but to experiment out in the country. Therefore on Thursday, the Tenth of February, in greatest secrecy, I removed my machine in two motor-lorries down to a little place called Nutley, on the borders of those high lands of Ashdown Forest, about eleven miles north of Lewes.

There, after some search, we found a convenient barn at a lonely, out-of-the-world place called Holly Farm, and this we soon converted into a suitable hangar.

The farmer and his wife were quite ready to rent us the house furnished as it stood, so next day we found ourselves in full possession.

Our party consisted of Teddy Ashton, the Theeds (father and son), Roseye, the maid Mulliner, and myself. Roseye and I made another journey by car up to Gunnersbury, and also to my rooms, in order to fetch down the remainder of the apparatus, and on the third day of our arrival all the parts were ready for assembling.

Holly Farm was a small but comfortable old house, with an ancient whitewashed kitchen which had black oak beams across its ceiling. The living-room was typical of the “best room” of the old-fashioned British farmer. In the deep-seated window stood a case of wool-flowers beneath a glass dome, while upon the horsehair-covered furniture were many crocheted antimacassars, and upon the wide, open hearth the farm-hand, an old fellow of nearly eighty, made huge log fires which were truly welcome in that wintry chill.

We had brought with us an ample stock of provisions, for the place we had chosen stood upon one of the highest points, not far from Chelwood Beacon, and miles from any town or village of any size.

From the attic windows which peeped forth from the thatch, we commanded a magnificent view both away north over Surrey, and south across the Downs to the Channel. We were up upon what the Bathy-orographical map of England terms “The Forest Ridge,” which lies between the North Downs and the sea.

With old Theed as sentry, we worked away in the farmyard, the doors of which were carefully closed, assembling the machine. That work took three days, though we all strove with a will, leaving Mulliner to act as housekeeper and prepare our meals.

Every day Theed’s son took the farmer’s cycle and went to get us a paper at Forest Row Station on the line between Tunbridge Wells and Horsham, that being the only connexion we held with the world outside. The good farmer I had paid handsomely, and had frankly told him that we were making some secret experiments with a new aeroplane against the Germans, whereupon he, as a good Englishman, had promised to hold his tongue.

That week passed rapidly—a week of arduous work, of intense anxiety and excitement. Sometimes a part would not fit, or was missing, and then our spirits would instantly flag. Still, after much eagerness—and sometimes a few bad words, sotto voce, of course—we gradually got the machine into readiness, and began the engine-test.

So powerful were those twin engines, with their wide throttle range, that their roar could be heard miles away, for I had not been able to silence them. Nevertheless, nowadays, country people are happily so used to hearing the rhythmic throb of aeroplane engines, that they scarcely take notice of it. Mine, however, were unusually fierce, especially when both were working, one for the propeller, and the other either for the searchlight or the directive sparking apparatus.

They had both been run “upon the bench” for many hours, of course, and passed as perfect by the makers. Yet a pilot never likes to trust himself upon something he has not tested with his own hands.

Each one of us had his or her own work, and each one of us worked with a true spirit of patriotism. I had argued that if the Anti-Aircraft Service were unable to bring down Zeppelins, then I, as a private individual and a pilot who had had some experience in the air, was ready to risk my own life in the attempt. And in this Teddy was whole-heartedly with me.

Naturally, Roseye often grew apprehensive. It was because of that she made me repeat many times the promise I had given her—that she should make the first flight with me in the newly-constructed machine.

Each day Teddy and I, aided by young Theed, worked testing, tightening strainers, seeing to pins and washers, adjusting bolts and other things. And at evening, while the Theeds and Mulliner gossiped in the kitchen, we three made ourselves comfortable before the great log fire in the farmer’s best room, and sometimes passed the time with cards, a well-thumbed pack of which Roseye had discovered in a drawer.

One evening we had played cards and Teddy had wished us good night, taken his candle and ascended the narrow creaky stairs, worn hollow by the tread of generations of farmers.

“Claude,” exclaimed my love, when we were alone, “I feel so very worried over you! I know how keen you are to act your part in this war, and to put your theory to the test. But is it really wise? Remember that you are going to risk your life. The creation of that electric wave, when in the air, may re-act upon your own engines and seize them—or it may create a spark across your own petrol-tank. In that case you would be blown up in mid-air!”

“Ah! That contingency I’ve already provided for, darling,” I assured her. “Have you not seen that my new petrol-tank is a wooden barrel held by wooden bands, so that there is no metal over which to spark?”

“I know. But electricity is such a mysterious force, one never knows what it will do, or how it will take effect.”

“You are going a little wide of the mark, Roseye,” I laughed. “We know pretty well the limitations of electricity—or rather we three know as much—and perhaps a little more, than the enemy does. My discovery is quite simple, after all. I have found out the means by which to create and to direct a flash of intense electrical current, a kind of false lightning. And that current, sparking over the interstices between the aluminium lattice-work and envelope of a Zeppelin, must certainly ignite the inflammable gas with which the ballonets are filled and which is so constantly escaping.”

“Yes, I know,” was her answer, as she allowed me to place my arm tenderly about her slim waist.

Then she seemed unduly thoughtful and apprehensive.

“Well?” I asked. “Why are you worrying, darling? I am striving to do my very best for my country. I am going to fight—or attempt to fight—just as valiantly as though I were dressed in khaki, and wore the winged badge of the pilot of the Royal Flying Corps. Indeed, my chance is better. I have no Flight-Commander to look to for orders. I am simply a handy man of the air who has, I trust, thought out a feasible plan.”

“Your plan is most excellent, Claude,” she admitted. “But what I fear is the great personal risk and peril to yourself.”

“There’s none,” I laughed. “You, my dear, have no fear when you are flying—even at high altitudes. Neither have I. Both of us are used to being up, and our machines are part of ourselves. I never think of danger; neither do you, Roseye. So don’t let us discuss it further,” I urged.

Then, in order to turn our conversation into a different channel, while I still held her hand as she sat upon that old black horsehair couch with me at her side, I said:

“I’ve just been reading what is termed a hot-aircraft poem in the Aeroplane. I wonder if I recollect the concluding lines. They run something like this:—”

The Scout makes no question of Ays or Noes, But right or left, as banks the Pilot, goes And he who dropped One down into the Field— He knows about it all—he knows, he knows! Here with a Dud Machine, if Winds allow, A Flask of Wine, a Load of Bombs—and Thou Before me sitting in the Second Seat— A Midnight Raid is Paradise enow. And when I turn upon the Homeward Trail, Dreaming of Decorations, Cakes and Ale, How bitter on the First Day’s Leave to find My Name spelt wrongly in the “Daily Mail!”

“Ah!” protested my love. “You really don’t take it with sufficient seriousness, Claude!”

“I do,” was my quick protest. “I am not worrying about failure: I am only anticipating success.”

“Do not be over sanguine, dear, I beg of you.”

“I never have been,” was my reply. “To-morrow I shall make the first test in the air—and you shall come with me, as I have for so long promised.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Not Counting the Cost.

From our aviation map—a plan of the country unfamiliar to most people—we had ascertained that about fourteen miles away, in a direct line due east from Holly Farm, and about three miles beyond the little town of Mayfield, lay a small village called Stockhurst.

The reasons why it attracted us were twofold. First the church was situated alone at some little distance from the village, and, secondly, it possessed an unusually high, pointed spire.

Therefore on the following morning Teddy and I took the car, and after going round by the high road which took us eighteen miles, through Maresfield, Buxted, and across Hadlow Down, we at last, after going along a picturesque lane, then brown and leafless, arrived at the long, straggling village street of Mayfield, a quiet old-world place, far removed from the noise and bustle of the world at war. Most of the homely cottages were thatched, and the whole place was typical of the charm of rural Sussex. As we passed slowly along we saw upon our right an ancient comfortable-looking inn with its big stable-yard at the side, the “AA” badge and a sign which told us that it was “The George.” Yet, farther on, an incongruous note was struck by a glaring red-brick shop called “The Stockhurst Stores.”

That morning was bright and crisp, with a clear blue sky. Indeed, before we had left we noted that the barometer was rising, and that the flight conditions were hourly improving.

A little way out of the village we came upon the fine old ivy-covered church, with a tall spire of a type similar to that of St. Martin’s in Trafalgar Square, while the dimensions of the aisle showed that it had been built in the long ago medieval days when Stockhurst had been one of the important market-towns of that district, until other and more convenient markets had sapped its trade, and it had slowly dwindled down to an obscure little place known only by reason of the monumental brasses and beautiful stained glass of its church, which Thomas Cromwell had happily spared.

Pulling up the car, I placed a file, a pair of heavy cutting-pliers, a piece of asbestos cloth and a short length of copper-wire cable in my pockets and, with Teddy, wandered through the graveyard in pretence of inspecting the exterior of the beautiful castellated fabric. By some arched windows we saw that its earlier portions were undoubtedly Norman, while others were of the Perpendicular Period. These we examined, and discussed, in order not to attract the undue attention of anybody in the vicinity.

We tried all the doors, much gratified, in secret, to find them locked. It proved the absence of any sexton or cleaner.

During our inspection of the church tower we had noticed the exact spot where descending from the spire ran the narrow flat strip of copper connecting the lightning-conductor with its earth-plate. We sauntered back to that place, where in the angle of the ancient flint wall, beside one of the heavy buttresses the metal strip went straight down into the turf. The copper was much oxidised, for it had been placed there many years ago for the protection of the steeple during thunderstorms.

“We mustn’t lose time,” I muttered to Teddy.

“Can you see anybody about?”

“No. All’s clear,” he declared. “I’ll watch, while you do it!”

I went quickly across to the wall and at a spot about five feet from the ground behind a big laurel bush I pulled the strip away from the wall with my fingers and worked at it with file and pliers, until I had severed it.

Then, at about a foot nearer the ground, I made a nick in the copper with my file and bent it until it broke, leaving a portion of the conductor about a foot long in my hand. This I at once concealed beneath the bush, while I placed a strip of asbestos cloth against the wall beneath each of the loose ends of the copper conductor, the latter holding the protective cloth in position upon the wall. Then, when I had concluded the work to my satisfaction, I pushed back the shrub so as to conceal as far as possible the damage to the lightning-conductor, and rejoined my friend.

“I’m afraid the rector wouldn’t much approve of our work—if he knew,” laughed Teddy, as we returned to the car.

“No,” I said, adding, “I suppose you’ll spend a pretty quiet day in this place, won’t you?”

“Yes. The George looks comfortable, but not too cheerful,” was Teddy’s reply. “What time shall you fly over?”

“Just after ten. The whole village should be in bed by then. You go out of the hotel just before the place shuts, and wander up here and watch. Theed, after seeing us off, will jump into the car and come over for you at once. Meanwhile, after the experiment, you can employ your time in connecting up the broken conductor with the bit of wire cable. I’ve left it all ready under the bush.”

“By Jove, Claude!” he said enthusiastically. “I shall be standing there eager to see whether it sparks across when you turn on the current.”

“I shall do so four times—judging the distance at five hundred, one thousand, two thousand, and three thousand yards,” I said. “Then I shall flash you two shorts from the searchlight to show you that I’ve finished. Understand?”

“Quite. Afterwards I shall wait about for Theed to pick me up,” Teddy replied. “I do hope we shall meet with success.”

“We ought. The points of the lightning-conductor should pick up the intense current. We’ve proved the theory on our insulated guys upon the wireless-pole,” I said in confidence. “But, of course, we don’t want to attract too much attention here. So make up some feasible story at the hotel after I’ve left you there.”

Ten minutes later we were in the old-fashioned bar-parlour of the George, where the tables were highly polished by the spilt ale of generations, and where the landlady, a buxom widow in a cap, greeted us courteously.

I stayed for a quarter of an hour, and smoked a cigarette. Then, rising, I said loudly:

“Well—you go over and see about it. Make the best bargain you can. But don’t pay more than ninety to ninety-five. Jack will run over in the car for you sometime this evening.”

And so giving the landlady the idea that my friend was about to go out and do business with some neighbouring farmer, I went out and drove as rapidly as I could back to Holly Farm.

That afternoon I spent with Theed tuning up in the yard, running the dynamo, making tests of the searchlight, manipulating the dual controls, and seeing to my altimeter and other instruments. I intended that, as far as was humanly possible, there should be no hitch of any kind.

Roseye, in her mechanic’s overalls, helped me eagerly. Her small hands, so white and delicate at the Savoy or the Carlton, were now oily and grimy, and across her chin was a smudge of oil, giving her an almost weird and comical appearance.

“Well?” she asked. “And what does it matter, pray? I haven’t my best frock on, nor my newest crêpe-de-chine blouse.”

Yes. She was a real “sport.” She knew as much of aircraft as most pilots in the services, and could effect a repair as well as most of the cigarette-smoking mechanics of the Royal Flying Corps. Women, when they take to flying aeroplanes, are often too daring, and take risks at which men would hesitate. Roseye was an illustration. I had often stood in breathless fear watching her bank in a manner that I should never have dared to, yet she had come to ground lightly as a bird, and hopped out of her seat laughing with the pure joy of living the exhilarating life in the air.

Truly the cobwebs are blown away from the brains and lungs of those who fly. Indeed, it is a chilly proceeding, even when indulged in during the dog days. Motoring without a wind-screen is considered rough by many people, but let them fly an aeroplane at forty miles an hour at 8,000 or 10,000 feet on any day. It is always chilly in the air, and by our thermometer that afternoon we both knew that we should have a cold night-flight.

Beyond the little front garden of the farm, a square ill-kept grass patch, bordered by neglected standard roses, was a big grass-field, while beyond lay the open down sloping away to the valley. At each corner of the field we had already placed big acetylene lights, ready charged, so that after we left, old Theed could light them to show us our landing-place, for a descent at night is always dangerous, especially if there is no landmark and the night be dark.

Through those exciting days of our sojourn at Holly Farm, I, assisted by Teddy and Roseye, had worked night and day attending to every detail. Indeed, at six o’clock that very morning—almost before the grey dawn—I had gone round to these four lamps, the intense white light of which would be visible for many miles, and lit and tested them in order to assure myself that all was in working order.

The afternoon wore on. Mulliner brought us out cups of tea into the yard, for we were far too anxious and busy to think of the afternoon gossip. The days were lengthening, of course, but we found them all too short. This final experiment that we were undertaking would prove whether, after all, we had any effective defence against the terror of the night—or not.

Try how I would, I could not put entirely away from myself the growing suspicion that, if spies had been so watchful, they would now be increasingly eager and ingenious in their endeavour to combat us. Once I laughed at those who told us there were German spies about us—I denounced them as scaremongers. But hard facts, shown to us in black and white, shown to us in prosecutions and actual executions of spies, had convinced me—as they must have convinced every Briton unless he were a pro-German or a lunatic—that dastardly secret agents existed even in the most unsuspected quarters, and that the Invisible Hand had been responsible for many a disaster to the British arms on land and at sea.

Would that Hand still bring disaster upon myself?

Daylight faded—and quickly. The evening was calm and clear, with an orange glow of sunset in the west.

All was in readiness. My machine, with its big dual engines, its searchlight, its dynamo, and that most deadly apparatus contained in the brown deal box, stood in the yard running like clockwork, all its controls in order, every strainer taut, every nut locked, and the wooden petrol-container filled.

All that was required was to wheel it out into the big grass-field and give the propeller a start.

Roseye and I ate a frugal meal alone. Mulliner, who served it, must have commented inwardly upon our unusual silence. We generally chattered merrily. Truth to tell, my mind was just then too full for words. If the test succeeded, then all would be well, and Great Britain could defy the enemy’s Zeppelins. If it failed, I would not only be ruined—for I had borrowed money to reconstruct my machine—but I should know that all my theories had been blown to the winds, and that the enemy’s bombastic threats to set London in flames were no idle ones.

Roseye, reading my thoughts, became also pensive. The hour of our great trial was now at hand.

Even as we sat at table we could hear the quick throb of the engines for a few moments, and then they were cut off. Theed was busy getting everything in order.

Darkness had fallen.

There was scarcely a breath of wind; the stars shone brightly in the steely-blue heavens, and the barometer was steadily rising.

“A splendid night for flying!” I declared, and as Roseye stood with me upon the threshold my arm stole lightly around her waist.

“Yes, dear,” was her reply, as she stood gazing away at the surrounding hills silhouetted against the night sky.

The silence was intense. From the distance, far away from the depth of the opposite valley, came the noise of a train on the main line which ran between London and the sea.

We both looked across the starlight scene, and wondered.

It was only half-past eight, so we went back into the farmer’s best room, and sat before the logs chatting.

In those strenuous days we were seldom alone together. Yet, full well, I knew how she reciprocated my affection, and how her every thought was for my welfare.

Yes. We loved each other truly, and my life would have been one of the most perfect bliss were it not for that gulf of suspicion that had been opened by her inexplicable disappearance. That hour, however, was not the one in which to recall it, so I crushed down its bitter memory. Roseye was mine—and mine alone.

“You really want to go up with me to-night, darling?” I asked, as I again sat beside her upon the frayed old couch before the big blazing fire. “You are not afraid?”

“I fear nothing, Claude, when I am with you,” she replied, raising her big blue eyes to mine. And then my lips met hers in a long, rapturous caress.

In the dim light of the cheap paraffin lamp upon the table I saw that her expression was one of complete trust and devoted affection. How could I doubt her further?

And yet the motive of her absolute refusal to tell me the truth concerning where she had been was veiled in mystery. It was an enigma that had puzzled me to distraction.

“Remember, darling,” I said, “you have never before flown at night. We have no landmarks, and can only guide by the compass. Towns and villages which, in normal times, can be easily identified, are now blotted out by the lighting regulations, and even when we find our church spire, our landing-place here may be difficult to discover.”

“But it will be lighted, and we shall see it,” she said. “If we steer by the compass for Stockhurst, Teddy—hearing our approach—will show us flashes from his lamp.”

“I hope so. He’s had a weary job I expect in that dead-alive place all day,” I laughed.

“No doubt. But by this time he’s active enough,” she replied.

And then we both lit cigarettes, for she was very fond of my own particular brand—one that I had found in the ward-room of one of our battle-cruisers before the war, and had always smoked since.

The cheap American clock upon a side table crept slowly on. Both of us were impatient. We waited still half-past nine, when Theed came in to report that all was in readiness. Would I help to wheel out the machine into the grass-field, he asked.

This I did. The three of us, including Roseye, put out the monoplane into position, pointing eastwards away from the trees, and facing the valley where, in the bright starlight, we saw that a faint grey mist was now rising.

Afterwards we returned into the farm-house and I helped Roseye into her flying-suit, with its strapped wind-cuffs and wide belt. She loosened her wealth of hair and, twisting it up deftly, without pins, placed it beneath her leather helmet, after which she stuffed her padded gloves into her pocket.

“It’s going to be cold,” I said. “I hope you’re warm enough, darling?” I asked anxiously.

“Quite,” she assured me. “My suit is wind-proof.”

Very quickly I also got into my kit—a kit I had used for months, because in an experiment of that sort one wants to be hampered with nothing new. Then, when we were both ready for the flight, we went into the field and, climbing into our seats, buckled the straps across us.

Theed junior and his father were attending to us, the former being at the propeller and in readiness.

“As soon as we’ve gone, jump into the car and go out for Mr Ashton,” I said to the younger man. “You’ll find him somewhere near Stockhurst church.” He knew the road, for he had gone over it on the previous day in order to explore.

“Right, sir! I’ll get away at once and leave father to light the flares for landing,” was his reply.

Then, one after the other, I made tests. First, I ran the engine, then I switched on the small light which showed our compass, the map in its celluloid cover, the altimeter, and the other instruments ranged before me. Afterwards I switched on the searchlight which for a few seconds shot a white beam of intense brilliancy towards the sky.

Having proved to my satisfaction that both engines the and dynamo were working well, I shouted the word to Theed.

In a few seconds there was a sudden throb of the engine which instantly developed into such a roar that to speak to Roseye at my side became quite impossible.

We shot forward into the darkness, a sharp gust of wind struck our faces, we bumped for a few seconds along the ground, and then left the earth, the noise of the powerful engines almost splitting the drums of our ears.

I saw before me a belt of trees and, pulling over the lever, rose above them, described a semicircle, and then, watching my compass, rose at once and headed for Stockhurst church, where I knew Teddy was anxiously awaiting our arrival.

I know that Roseye, with the icy wind cutting her eyes, lowered her goggles, but after that I fear I became too occupied to notice anything further.

It was a wild night-flight, and I knew that both our lives were now in jeopardy.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Tri-Coloured Rings.

Almost as soon as we rose we saw straight before us a beam of reddish light moving swiftly northward in the direction of London.

For a few seconds it was shut off, shone out again, and then went out. I knew it to be from a railway engine, the stoker of which had been firing up. Moving trains, notwithstanding the pulling down of carriage-blinds, and the darkening of railway platforms so that persons break their legs in descending, or getting out at a supposed platform and falling upon the line, form the best guides for aircraft at night. By following an express locomotive, which must be stoked at frequent intervals, and looking out for the coloured signal-lights along the line, an airman can always reach the London area. I had, when night-flying at Hendon before the war, often guided myself home by following an up-express.

So terrific was the roar of my new engine that I could only communicate with Roseye by signs.

I pointed at the moving train and, understanding my gesture, she nodded.

As we rose higher and yet higher into the calm starlit sky, the earth beneath us became increasingly mysterious and misty. Here and there dim lights showed, single lights of scattered cottages unseen by rural constables, or improperly obscured lights from the larger houses.

Soon some red and green lights showed away on our left, and I knew that in the valley there ran the main railway line to London.

By day, at an altitude of 2,500 feet, the whole surface of the earth appears perfectly flat, hills and valleys seeming to be on the same level. Therein lies one of the dangers of aerial navigation. The contour of the earth is quite indistinguishable when one is half a mile high, therefore the altimeter is not of very great use—and more especially so at night. The instrument only records the number of feet above sea-level, and not above the earth. Thus, a pilot flying by night can very easily pass over a valley and suddenly find himself encountering a range of high hills with a fatal belt of trees or row of houses.

Such is exactly what happened to us on that memorable night. We crossed the valley, and as I steered straight by compass in the direction of Stockhurst at about thirty miles an hour, I had dipped and of a sudden I found myself nearing a dark, high hill. Just in time I shot up and cleared, I believe only by inches, the roof of a house.

Roseye was quick to notice our sudden ascent and how we skimmed over the house and the trees of somebody’s park as we kept our rather zigzag course.

A clever writer upon aeroplanes has, with much truth, pointed out that the natural course of a machine is never a direct one, and if a line could be drawn between two given points it would be found that first it veered slightly to the left of this line, then gradually worked back to the true direction, afterwards heading off to the right and again returning. Thus the true course is in the form of a continuous series of left and right-hand semicircles.

These eccentric semicircles we were making with the engine running like clockwork. There were few clouds and, therefore, the chance of a nasty “nose-dive” was not to be apprehended. Once a machine gets into clouds it behaves like a ship in a stormy sea, and clouds can easily be met with after height of three thousand feet.

After passing over the hill I dropped again to 2,000 feet, that being the best height to fly on a crosscountry journey. There now opened out to our view a quantity of lights, among which were the red glare of a furnace, and a long row of small lights which evidently marked the main street of some little town in defiance of the “order.”

I planed down till I could clearly see the obscured lights of a railway station, and by my map, over which my little four-volt lamp was shining, I decided it to be Uckfield. I therefore realised that I was bearing too far south and, further, just at that moment I had a “bump”—as we call it—or rather I ran into a patch of rarefied air which caused the machine to plunge heavily and tilt.

Righting her, I rose again rapidly to 3,000 feet to get out of the danger-zone and, turning east, discerned in the darkness below me yet another cluster of lights which I approached rapidly, having decided that it must be Buxted.

Still steering south-east I could see, away on my left in the far distance, a number of scattered lights in a long line, denoting where Hastings and St. Leonards lay. Beyond those lights, away upon the dark sea, showed the long beam of a ship’s searchlight moving slowly in an are in the Channel.

Roseye, seated beside me, touched my arm and pointed to it. Again I nodded in response.

By the map I saw we were now approaching that high ridge which stretches from Heathfield across to Burwash, the ridge which overlooks Hailsham and the Pevensey Levels. My altimeter then showed 2,800 feet and all went well for ten minutes, or so, until just as I approached the railway line near Heathfield, we became suddenly blinded by the white beam of a searchlight from below.

Roseye put up both hands to her eyes, but I bent my head and kept on my course.

I saw her put out her hand as though to turn our own searchlight downwards and gripped her wrist, preventing her.

I knew that our approach had been heard by the anti-aircraft listening-post on Brightling Beacon, and that, having picked us up, they would see the tri-coloured rings beneath my planes. Truly it was fortunate that I had had them painted there, for I knew that upon the Beacon they had a very useful anti-aircraft gun.

Beneath my breath, however, I cursed the men with that searchlight for, following us, it blinded us. My first impulse was to turn away from it but, next instant, I realised that to do so might arouse suspicion below and they might open fire. Therefore I kept on though, so intense was the glare, that I could see nothing of my instruments before me, and Roseye sat with her gloved hands covering her face.

As suddenly as it had opened upon us, the light was shut off. The naval gunners on duty below had evidently satisfied themselves that we were not enemies, and therefore, finding myself too far south for Mayfield, I made a semicircle until I again came across a railway line going north. I decided that if I followed it I must find Mayfield station.

It struck me that already Teddy must be hearing my approach. My luminous wrist-watch showed it to be now past ten. Curious how very quickly time passes in the air if there is but little wind, and one’s engine is running well. It only seemed as though we had left Holly Farm a few minutes before. Since we had left I had spoken no word with my well-beloved, the roar of the exhaust and the shrill whistling of the icy wind preventing conversation. Yet I could see her well-wrapped-up figure silhouetted against the sky as, seated alert and watchful, she was now on the look out for Teddy’s signal.

That we were flying far too high I suddenly realised, therefore I planed down to about 900 feet, and at that altitude we sailed over Mayfield which was, however, in complete darkness, save for a cycle travelling along its main street, and a couple of lights at the station whither the green and red signals had guided us. Passing Mayfield I still descended to 600 feet, and then again circled round, but neither of us could discern any flashing signal.

Teddy had with him a strong electric torch, and we had arranged that he should give me a number of “shorts” followed by a number of “longs” in order to tell me that all was clear.

But we could discern no signal!

Still lower I descended and circled about until I had actually picked out the pointed spire of Stockhurst church.

Yet there was still no sign.

Roseye saw how puzzled I had become, and extended her palms to denote dismay. What could have gone wrong? Where was the hitch?

Back I turned over Mayfield again, and once more took certain bearings, for night-flying is always fraught with many difficulties, and one can so very easily get lost. I consulted both map and compass very carefully, satisfying myself at last that I had made no mistake.

I had certainly picked up Stockhurst. But where was the agreed sign?

Something surely must have happened! Why did not Teddy show us his light?

The time was quite correct. We were only ten minutes late. I knew my friend too well to put his silence down to mere forgetfulness.

No. Something had happened!

Both of us strained our eyes into that black, cavernous space below, as we hovered in mid-air full of hesitation and perplexity.

There was but one thing to do, namely, to make our way back, for a landing there was quite impossible, scarcely anything being distinguishable save a small winding stream. Besides, I was without knowledge as to whether the wind had changed since I had left the farm. It probably had.

Suddenly, flying as low as I really dared, I struck out a little to the south making a complete circle of Stockhurst, but avoiding Mayfield. I had no desire to rouse the town again by the noise of my exhaust, for in those days of Zeppelin peril the throb of aircraft engines was always alarming, and more especially at night.

Three times did I circle round, but failed to attract Teddy’s attention.

Suddenly Roseye nudged me and pointed eagerly down to the left. Her quick eyes had detected a tiny white light showing, which looked like short and long sparks.

My heart gave a bound. Yes, it was Teddy!

Yet we were now so high again, to avoid the surrounding hills, that his flash-lamp only looked a tiny point of light.

He flashed some message in Morse, but I only got a few letters.

Would he repeat it? We both watched breathlessly, as I headed the machine in his direction.

Yes!

Again the light spoke in the “longs” and “shorts” of the Morse code, which both Roseye and I could understand.

Together we read it.

“Return in an hour,” he signalled.

Why? I wondered. What could have occurred?

Somehow, by the appearance of his light, I thought he must be signalling in secret, and not in the open.

He would expect some acknowledgment from me, telling him that I understood.

Therefore I elevated our searchlight so as to shine upward, instead of below. Then, touching the lever, a long beam of white light shot skyward for a second.

Afterwards I shut it off, and made straight away due southward by the compass, greatly puzzled.

What could possibly have happened?

Chapter Nineteen.

Flashes in the Night.

It was most fortunate that I had taken in plenty of petrol.

Picking up the railway line close to Mayfield, I followed it due south towards Heathfield. For half the distance I could see that it ran through woods, for the moon was rising, and gave us a slightly better view of what lay below us.

When just over Heathfield Station the searchlight from the anti-aircraft post on Brightling Beacon again shot up suddenly, and in a few moments was upon us. I was flying quite leisurely, and banked so that they might get another good view of the rings on my planes.

They evidently recognised me through their glasses, for very quickly they shut off their light and I continued, finding my way by the coloured signal-lights of the line from London to Eastbourne.

The land beneath us was low-lying and pretty level. There, before me, I saw a few half-obscured lights denoting Hailsham town, then the railway lights of Polegate junction came into view, and still farther in the distance the row of scattered lights, some of which were moving, denoted the position of Eastbourne.

The authorities may make all sorts of complicated “lighting orders” with power to the police to enforce them, but it is next to impossible to black out any even moderately populous area.

While a hundred residents will effectually darken their windows, there are the few thoughtless ones who burn gas beneath their skylights, or who do not sufficiently cover one window—often a staircase-window—or servants who go to bed neglectful to draw their curtains across the blinds.

Then there are shaded street lamps burning at dangerous corners, or at cross-roads, and these, provided the ground is wet after rain, reflect a zone of bright light which acts as an excellent guide to aviators aloft.

In the increasing light of the moon I made out the big gasometers of Eastbourne which stood out as a landmark in the direction of Langney, but, leaving them on my left, I steered a course for the coast over Willingdon Hill, my altimeter again showing 2,800 feet.

I flew slowly and leisurely for fear of our anti-aircraft guns.

As I expected, a few moments later the listening-post on Beachy Head, having heard my approach, was instantly on the alert, and the beam from their searchlight shot up, searching slowly about for me, because at that moment I had run into a bank of cloud and became obscured.

We were suddenly both enveloped in darkness, our only light being that little bulb set over the map. Still I kept blindly on, hoping to get out of it quickly. Yet the moments seemed hours as we went along. I increased the speed, but so long were we in that damp obscurity, that I knew that we had entered the cloud at its greatest length.

At last we emerged once more into the cold bright night. The atmosphere of the cloud had chilled us both to the bone, but as we emerged the long white ray fell quickly upon us. Then I swerved, so as to exhibit to the naval watchers the rings upon my planes and decreased my speed to show that I had neither desire nor intention to escape. Indeed, I hovered there for a few moments in order to let them have good sight of me. This satisfied them, and once again the long white ray was shut off.

In the increased light I found that road which most motorists know so well, the steep and often winding way which runs near Beachy Head down to Friston and on to Seaford. Then, flying over Newhaven, I kept on to Rottingdean and headed for the scattered and ill-obscured lights of Brighton.

Flying at 3,000 feet I passed over the central station at Brighton, striking north to Lewes, with my eyes constantly upon my watch. From Lewes I followed the right-hand line of railway which I saw, by the map, would lead me past Barcombe to Uckfield. And with my engine running well I again, on gaining Buxted, struck due east in search of another line of railway which would lead me to Mayfield.

Here, I had some difficulty. I found a winding river, and believing it to be the Rother, took my bearings by it. Ten minutes later I found I had made an error, and had to return to Buxted and take fresh bearings, which eventually led me once again back over Mayfield.

An hour had passed, and I now again began to search for Teddy.

By the bearings I had taken before, I soon picked up the spire of Stockhurst and, descending to about 500 feet, again circled around it.

I had only made one circuit when we both saw Teddy’s flashes, and then we knew that all was in readiness. The moment of our great experiment had come!

Roseye, who had taken careful instructions beforehand, prepared to manipulate the levers, while I flew the machine.

To judge distance in the darkness is always extremely difficult, especially when one is flying an aeroplane. Nevertheless, I had already made calculations and, assisted by my previous experiences of night-flying, began the trial.

I had been travelling at sixty miles an hour for the past few minutes, but I now slowed up and, dropping still another hundred feet or so, circled out until I gauged that I was about five hundred yards distant from the tall, thin steeple.

While I pointed the nose of the machine in the direction of the church, Roseye set the secondary engine and dynamo at work. Then I drew over the little red-painted switch on the box close at my hand ere Roseye was aware of my intention. I left it there for a full minute, directing the invisible wave of electricity upon the lightning-conductor of the church. Then I released it, and wondered what result the watchful Teddy had observed.

Circling the steeple again still higher, and going out farther, to what I judged to be a thousand yards distant, I repeated the experiment three times, in order that Teddy could make accurate observation. Roseye pulled over the lever the last time, for at that moment we had a “bump.”

I wondered if he was witnessing sparks flying across that intervening space of the severed lightning-conductor—sparks of twelve inches, or so.

Or was he watching and seeing nothing—in which case it would be proved that the invention, when put to practical test in the air, was a failure.

A further thousand yards away I proceeded, and thrice again Roseye pulled over the switch, peering down below, as though in order to try and get sight of the flashes of electricity behind that convenient laurel bush.

For a few moments I made a rapid spiral ascent until I judged that I was a full three thousand yards in a westerly direction from the church steeple.

Then I myself made the contact with our apparatus, directing the intensely powerful current towards the church.

Thrice I repeated it. Then, once more I went back to a thousand yards, and again switched on the current. Afterwards I made two rapid “shorts” with the searchlight, to indicate to my friend that I had finished and, turning tail, set forth straight back to try and find the spot where old Theed had lit the acetylene lamps to mark the field wherein we could land.

Being so late, all lights of the villages were now practically extinguished except railway signal-lights.

In consequence, a great difficulty confronted me.

With Roseye seated at my side, motionless and wondering whether our experiments had proved successful, I flew on until, of a sudden, we entered a second bank of cloud, all the vista before and below us becoming obscured. Since we had started some drifting clouds had blown across, and in one of these we now found ourselves. To rise higher would mean that I could not pick up any landmarks, or perhaps not see the flares awaiting us.

We knew that young Theed had found Teddy with the car, for he had flashed on his electric headlights three times to us as signal.

I confess that, at the moment, I became greatly puzzled for, on emerging from the cloud, I found myself over a big patch of forest, with rising ground behind it. My altimeter showed three thousand three hundred feet, and before me were other clouds drifting rapidly in my direction.

A biting wind having sprung up I, for a full half-hour, lost my bearing altogether. Roseye, practised airwoman that she was, had quickly discerned my perplexity and danger. Yet she showed no fear—trusting in me implicitly.

There seemed to be a quantity of rising ground about me, therefore I decided to ascend farther, first to avoid the oncoming clouds that were drifting low, precursory of rain or snow, and secondly, from a higher altitude to be able to pick up hoping, Theed’s flares guiding us home.

I rose to five thousand eight hundred feet when, on my left, I saw in the far distance a red stream of light from the furnace of a locomotive, but on what line of rail it was I could not decide. Lost I was in that unbounded space of darkness—lost until I saw half a dozen scattered street lamps darkened on top and shedding slight patches of light upon the pavement, when I suddenly realised that below me lay a small town. I recognised station lights! I had seen those once before that evening. It was Uckfield!

While lost I had flown in a complete circle quite unconsciously, as every airman flies. But now, steering again by compass, it was not long before I at last saw those four tiny points of white light below—the acetylene lamps over which old Theed was keeping guard.

At such a height were we that the flashes looked mere specks.

Roseye nudged me, and pointed down at them, while I nodded a response.

Just at that moment we saw, a tiny pin-point of light flashing near the lamps, and knew it to be old Theed signalling to us, fearing lest at that height we might miss our landmark and go forward.

He could not see us, but of course he must have been hearing our powerful engine for some time.

In response, I gave one short flash with the searchlight, and then commenced to plane rapidly down, circling above the field marked for our landing.

A belt of firs stood on the west side I knew, and these I was compelled to avoid. My additional difficulty was one that always confronts a pilot when landing at night, namely, an ignorance of the direction of the wind. By day the pilot can tell this from the way in which smoke blows, the currents of air waving across growing crops, and by other signs which in the darkness are not available. A good landing should be against the wind, so as to break the impact of coming to earth. Yet by night, if there be no mark in the aerodrome telling the pilot the direction of the wind, he has to take chances and risk it.

This I did. I came down in a rapid spiral over Holly Farm and, circling the field twice, alighted carefully, facing the front of the house. Unable to judge the distance exactly we, of course, bumped along a little, but I succeeded in steadying her, and a moment later we were stationary on terra-firma after nearly two hours and a quarter in the air.

Instantly I shut off the engine and then, turning to Roseye, uttered the first word.

“Well?” I asked, taking her gloved hand in mine.

“Splendid, Claude!” she cried enthusiastically.

“Splendid! Absolutely splendid!”

I saw that she was pinched with cold, half-frozen indeed, and very cramped, therefore I unstrapped her, and lifted her out into the arms of old Theed, who came running up to us.

Then I hopped out myself and, taking my love’s arm, we walked up to the farm where we were soon before the huge log fire in the farmer’s best room, while Theed went round to extinguish the lamps.

Then, as we stood before the fire to thaw, still in our flying clothes, I drew her dear face towards mine and kissed her fondly upon the lips.

“I wonder why Teddy sent us away for an hour, as he did?” she queried.

“Don’t know, dearest,” was my reply. “He’ll be back very shortly, and will tell us what happened.”

At that moment Mulliner entered with two cups of hot cocoa, a beverage at that hour and in those circumstances very welcome.

“You managed splendidly!” Roseye declared. “Isn’t it awfully exciting to be up in the dark! Nobody who hasn’t been up at night would ever dream how weird and yet how lovely is the feeling—would they?”

“It’s far worse with these new lighting orders,” I remarked. “One gets so few landmarks. That’s why I lost my way more than once.”

Scarcely had I uttered those words when Teddy, in his big brown motor-coat and muffler, burst into the room.

Dashing across to me he wrung my hands with wild enthusiasm.

“It works, Claude!” he cried. “The conductor sparked across at every test. Even the last, at three thousand yards, the spark was quite an intense one!”

“Then we haven’t failed!” I cried breathlessly.

“No. I should rather think not!” was my friend’s eager reply. “Why, at five hundred yards the laurel bush got badly burnt, and at a thousand it made a fearful crackle and was alight.”

“But it really acted at three thousand—you say?”

“It acted perfectly—and over a twelve-inch spark, too!”

“Then it shows that, after all, we can direct the electric current and thus create sparks across from metal to metal!” I remarked.

“Yes. We’ve succeeded,” he said. “To-night I’ve witnessed something that no man has hitherto seen. Our minor experiments were interesting enough, but this is proof positive that an invincible power to successfully destroy Zeppelins has at last been put into our hands.”

“I hope so,” declared Roseye. “Mr Munro and I have had a most exciting flight. But why,” she asked, “why did you send us away on our arrival?”

“Because the terrible roar made by your engine alarmed the whole neighbourhood, and some people ran out in their night-clothes towards the church, believing you to be an enemy machine. Therefore I climbed a wall and signalled to you to return in an hour, when all would, I hope, be quiet again.”

“Was all quiet when we returned?”

“Yes, they had all gone back to their beds. Theed had arrived for me by that time, so after your second visit he assisted me to take out the asbestos sheet and rejoin the conductor with the copper cable. We made a good joint; so that there’ll be no danger to the church in case of a thunderstorm.”

“Then the importance of the invention is proved?” asked Roseye.

“Proved?” he echoed. “Proved without a shadow of doubt.”

And he unwound his muffler, cast off his heavy frieze coat, and we both went out to assist in wheeling the machine back into the barn.

That night we had proved to our satisfaction that our long and patient labours had certainly not been in vain.

Chapter Twenty.

Those “Eyes!”

Next day dawned wild and wet, with a sixty-mile-an-hour wind.

During the morning Teddy and I, assisted by Theed, made some little adjustments to the machine which, though reposing in the barn, was ready at any instant for another flight.

All three of us were, naturally, full of glee that our invention was a proved success. It only remained for us to rise and attack the next Zeppelin that came over.

This idea, however, was all very well, of course, but enemy airships had a sly knack of coming over the sea at unexpected moments, dropping bombs, and returning before our aeroplanes could rise sufficiently high to drop incendiary bombs upon them. The exploits of poor young Warneford, and of the French gunners behind the lines at Brabant-le-Roi, had been hailed with delight by the Allies, and naturally so, yet no enemy aircraft had been brought down on British soil. That was a feat which I intended, even at the risk of my own life, to achieve.

The power to destroy a Zeppelin had been placed within my hand, and I intended to use it, though at present I had not matured any actual plan.

After our frugal luncheon that day, a meal of boiled bacon and beans, the weather cleared up, so Roseye expressed a wish to go down to Eastbourne to buy something she required. So I took her in the ear. A nip was in the air, so she wore a veil, and on starting away I told Teddy that, in all probability, we should have dinner in Eastbourne before returning.

“Right ho! old man,” he replied. “Perhaps I shall run up to town. We want those two new nuts and the sparking-plugs you know, so I can get them. If I go, I shan’t be down till the last train, so send Theed over to Nutley to meet me, won’t you?”

“Right,” I said, and a moment later, with Roseye beside me, I started off down the long narrow wooded lane which led round by a place called Oldlands, and down into Maresfield.

The winter landscape was dull and dispiriting.

We had passed through the little town, and out again upon the Lewes road when, having gone about four miles, we suddenly saw a big dark green limousine standing at the roadside. The chauffeur, whose coat was off, had evidently got tyre-trouble, and, the road at that bend being very narrow, I was compelled to slow down in order to pass.

Beside the car, watching the chauffeur as he worked, was a middle-aged man in a thick drab motor-coat and cap of shepherd’s plaid, while beside him stood a tall, erect woman in furs. The man was idly smoking a cigar end and laughing with the woman, and as we passed the latter turned to gaze at us. In the passing glance I obtained of her I saw that hers was a hard, thin face, with high cheek-bones, an unusually pointed chin, and a curious expression in her eyes.

Somehow—why I cannot tell—I thought she regarded us a little inquisitively.

Next instant Roseye, in breathless fear, clutched at my arm, gasping:

“Quick, Claude! For Heaven’s sake let’s get away!”

“Why?” I asked, much surprised at the sudden terror she had evinced.

“That woman!” cried my love, in a voice of alarm. “Did she see me—do you think she saw me?” she asked, her trembling hand still upon my arm.

“How could she, through that veil?” I asked. “It was impossible.”

“Is my veil really thick enough to conceal my face entirely?” she asked eagerly.

“Not absolutely to conceal it, but to render identification extremely difficult at such a distance,” I replied. “But—tell me, why are you trembling like this, Roseye?”

“Oh, drive on,” she cried. “Drive quickly. Do! She saw you—she will know you from those photographs in the newspapers. I saw by her look that she recognised you. Don’t glance round. Keep on, keep on! Go as fast as ever you can. Save me from her—oh! do save me, Claude!” she implored.

I saw, with much apprehension, that her unaccountable mental agitation was returning.

“But who is the woman?” I demanded eagerly. “She’s a perfect stranger to me.”

“Ah! but not to me, Claude! That woman!” she gasped, as her gloved hands lying upon her knees clutched convulsively. “That woman is—she’s the Woman with the Leopard’s Eyes!”

“That woman!” I ejaculated, amazed. “Was that really the woman?”

“Yes. But—why is she about here? She means mischief, Claude. She means to do us both harm!”

“And the man?” I asked, bending to her without glancing into her face, for I was driving at increased pace in obedience to her command. “Who is he?”

“I couldn’t see his face—only hers—the fiend!”

“Shall we turn back and watch their movements?” I suggested.

“No, no! A thousand times no!” she shrieked, apparently terrified at such a suggestion. “Don’t go near her. Save me from her—won’t you, Claude? If you love me, don’t let her approach me. Will you?”

“Trust in me, darling,” I said reassuringly, yet greatly puzzled at the unexpected encounter, and in fear also that sudden sight of the hated woman might bring on another nerve attack.

She drew aside her veil and lifted her close-fitting little motor-hat from her brow, as though its weight oppressed her. Then I noticed how pale and terrified was her face. She had blanched to the very lips.

“Don’t trouble about the matter any more,” I urged, yet I knew well that sight of the mysterious woman had recalled to her memory some evil and terrible recollection that she had been striving to put from her for ever.

“But I do trouble about it, Claude,” she said in a harsh, apprehensive voice. “I fear for you more than I fear for myself. She is your enemy, as well as mine. Against her we are, both of us, powerless.”

I pricked up my ears at her words.

“What do you mean, Roseye?” I asked. “How can she be my enemy? I’ve never before set eyes upon the woman!”

“Ah! you don’t know, dear—so you can’t understand,” was my love’s impatient reply.

“No. I want you to tell me,” I said. “If danger really besets both of us, is it not your duty to explain the facts to me, and leave me to take steps to protect ourselves?”

“Yes. I would tell you, dear—only—only—”

“Only what?”

“Only—well—only I can’t!” she answered evasively. Then, a second later, she added: “I told you, Claude, long ago that I couldn’t tell you anything.”

“You hold some secret; and yet you conceal it from me!” I remarked in a tone of reproach.

“Because—because I am compelled. I—I am in fear—in deadly fear, Claude!”

“In fear of what?” I asked, for I saw by her demeanour that such was the nerve-strain that she was on the point of tears.

For a second she hesitated. Then she said:

“In fear of that woman—the one with the Leopard’s Eyes.”

I saw it was quite useless to argue further with her while driving, for we were then travelling at a great pace, and had already passed the four-ways at the Cross-in-Hand.

She lapsed into a long silence, seated immovably at my side, her gaze was fixed blankly upon the muddy road that constantly opened out before us.

On the previous night we had been flying over that very road.

I remarked upon it, in order to change the conversation, but she only nodded. Truly her figure was a pathetic one, for she had turned back her veil, so that the air might cool her troubled brain.

As a result that passing glimpse of the mysterious woman whom she held in such fearsome terror, her whole attitude had again in become changed. She looked wild and haggard, and in her great blue eyes, so clear and trustful, there was a queer, uncanny look that caused me both wonderment and apprehension.

On we went, through Hailsham and Polegate, until we ran over the steep hill at Willingdon, and at last descended through Eastbourne Old Town, until we reached the busy Terminus Road of the fashionable go-ahead watering-place, the road which led to the fine sea-front so beloved by the summer visitor.

Roseye having done her shopping in the Terminus Road, we ran along past the Wish Tower to the Grand Hotel, where we took tea at one of the little wicker tables in the glass-fronted lounge, and afterwards smoked cigarettes.

Though it was winter, the hotel was filled by a smart crowd.

I met Tringham, who had learnt flying with me and who was now a naval Flight-Commander. He was with his young wife and we four had a long gossip, but of course I said nothing of our secret flight on the previous night.

Naturally, our talk was of Zeppelins, and in the course of our chat Tringham, who was in naval uniform, discussed with me what was necessary to damage a Zeppelin sufficiently to bring her down.

“The question,” he declared emphatically, “has several answers. If the machine is hit fair and square by an explosive-incendiary projectile, which ignites the gas as it escapes from the damaged gas-bags after mixing with the air, it is certain it will crash to earth a blazing wreck, as the one did behind the French lines the other day. But rifle bullets will do little harm, as they only make small holes, which often can be repaired by the crew whilst aloft.”

“I quite agree that rifles against a Zeppelin are just about as efficacious as firing with pea-shooters,” I remarked.

“The public have not yet realised that a Zeppelin is a very difficult thing to attack successfully,” declared the Flight-Commander, who as one of the best-known of our naval pilots, had done much heroic work, and was now stationed somewhere on the East Coast. “Shells which don’t hit fair to the mark may badly damage one of the eighteen ballonets, but this is not sufficient to bring her down. However, it may partially cripple the machine by upsetting its stability, and it is then highly dangerous to run the powerful engines at speed. To hit either of the gondolas would, of course, do serious harm, but at six thousand feet they are at night an almost invisible mark, and it is only by a lucky chance they would be damaged.”

“And what, in your opinion, is the best means of destroying Zeppelins?” Roseye asked, with a sly glance at me.

“My dear Miss Lethmere,” he replied, “guns and guns alone are at present of any use against these air monsters. We must see to it that the weapons we use are sighted to carry to 12,000 feet, and fire a shell that will not only rip up casing and ballonet, but will at the same time ignite the escaping gas.”

“The newest super-Zeppelins have a sentry posted on top,” remarked Mrs Tringham, a smart little lady, well-known to Roseye, for she had often flown with her husband. “He is separated from the crew far below, but he is in telephonic communication with the commander, so that he can warn him of any aeroplane ascending above for bomb-dropping. I quite agree with Alfred,” she went on, “well-equipped guns and good naval gunners are the best defences against this new peril of the night.”

“Moreover,” Tringham remarked, “I give no credence whatever to the reports that the Germans are circulating, namely, that they are completing two new Zeppelins a week.”

“I agree,” I said. “That story has gone the round of the Press, but is only a piece of clever propaganda sent out to neutral countries with the object of being seized upon by their sensational newspapers. No! Airships are big, unwieldy, as well as very vulnerable things. That the enemy has a number of them is quite certain, but the policy of frightfulness on paper is part of the Teuton plan. I admit that we are behindhand with our air-defences; but I do not support the Press in its shrieking clamours. We shall defeat the Huns one day—never fear. England has never yet been beaten.”

And again I glanced at my well-beloved, whom I saw had already read what was passing in my mind. Our secret was our own.

But I was glad to have the views of such an air expert as my friend Tringham, because he reflected what was just then uppermost in the official mind.

Evidently the “nest of hornets” fallacy had been dismissed.

When the Flight-Commander and his wife left us—for he was on forty-eight hours leave, and they were motoring back to town—Roseye and I went for a stroll back into the town. There was nothing to do before dinner, so we went into a cinema and sat watching the latest picture-drama—a certain photo-play that was highly popular at that moment and which, with transpontine vividness, showed a fuzzy-haired heroine, bound and gagged by the cigarette-smoking villain, flung down into a slimy sewer, and afterwards rescued by the muscular and, of course, clean-shaven hero. I wonder why, to-day, no hero ever wears a beard? Twenty years ago they were all blonde-bearded. But Mr Frank Richardson having declared that whiskers and love are as oil and water, the public have adopted that view.

After the “pictures” we returned to the hotel, where we dined and, shortly after nine, left in the car for Holly Farm.

The night was again bright, clear and starlit, and the run home was very pleasant, even though the prohibition of headlights necessitated the greatest caution and a reduction of speed.

Roseye said little during the journey back. I saw she was unduly thoughtful. No doubt she was reflecting upon that incident on the road. While Tringham and his wife had sat with us and we were gossiping, she had been quite her old self again, but I had noticed that as soon as they had left she had lapsed into that strange attitude of nervous, even terrified apprehension.

She seemed to be possessed of some presage of coming evil. And yet she refused—blankly refused—to tell me the truth, and so place me upon my guard against any plot or pitfall which the enemy might prepare for us.

We ran on. Noting her silence, I pushed forward with all haste until at length we swung round from the lane into the farmyard, the gates of which old Theed had left open for us.

The old fellow ran up to us from out of one of the sheds wherein he had been seated awaiting us.

“Mr Munro!” he cried eagerly. “May I see you at once, sir. I want to tell you something. There’s some mystery here, sir.”

“Mystery?” I echoed together with Roseye.

Then, noting his scared face beneath the light of my side-lamps, I asked:

“Mystery? What mystery? Tell me.”

Chapter Twenty One.

Roseye’s Secret.

Old Theed, the stalwart ex-police officer, was greatly excited.

“Just before half-past eight, my son having gone in the car over to Horsham to see his young lady, and afterwards to pick up Mr Ashton, I was sitting in the kitchen with Mulliner,” he said. “Suddenly I thought I heard footsteps out in the yard. I listened for a few moments and then I heard, quite distinctly, a curious sawing noise. I went silently out by the front door and was just creeping round the corner of the house, when the figure of a man—who was evidently on the watch—suddenly sprang from the shadow. I was seized by the collar, and the next I knew was that a handkerchief was stuffed into my mouth and a rope tied round my arms and legs. I tried to cry out, but I could not. I was trussed like a fowl. My assailants were two men, and pretty tough ones they were, too!”

“Mulliner was in the house—eh?” asked Roseye.

“Yes, miss. They flung me down into the garden yonder, up against those rose-bushes, and then went into the house after her,” Theed went on. “I heard her scream, but could not move to assist her. She shouted for help, but I couldn’t answer. But she was plucky and she saved the situation.”

“How?” I asked, amazed.

“Why, she shouted out to me: ‘It’s all right, Theed! I’ve telephoned down to Nutley. The police will soon be here!’”

“That was certainly a master-stroke, considering that we have no telephone here,” I exclaimed.

“No. But it scared the thieves—or whoever they were—for they didn’t wait, but made off in a car which they had waiting down the lane. I heard them hurry away down to the lane, and soon afterwards the car started.”

“Who released you?” I asked.

“They had tied Mulliner to a chair in the kitchen but, after half an hour, she managed to get free, and came out to find and release me. Then, on going into the yard with a lamp, we found a curious thing. They had evidently been examining your aeroplane, sir.”

“They’ve been in there!” I gasped. “Strangers!”

“Yes, sir. But, as far as I can see, they’ve done nothing.”

I at once took one of the side-lamps from the car and, with Roseye, went into the barn. Mulliner, who had now recovered from her fright, followed us.

As far as I could discern by a cursory glance, nothing had been tampered with. It was fortunate, however, that we had removed the box containing the secret electrical apparatus, and that it was concealed in the house, as was our constant habit.

The story told by the pair was certainly alarming.

Once again I recognised here the evil finger-prints of the Invisible Hand.

“You saw the men who attacked you?” Roseye said to Mulliner when we were again in the house. “Describe them to us.”

“Well, miss. There’s the difficulty. There were two men, I know, as well as a woman—a tallish woman, dressed in a fur-coat and a small motor-hat. She had a thin, dark-looking face and funny eyes, and she spoke to the men in some foreign language—Italian, I think.”

“Ah!” gasped Roseye, turning to me terrified. “The woman! I feared it—I knew it! The woman with the Leopard’s Eyes!”

“And the men?” I asked. “Did you not see them?”

“I only caught a glimpse of one of them,” and the description she gave of him almost tallied with that of the man whom we had seen in the woman’s company at the roadside. The pair had evidently been on the watch ever since afternoon. They no doubt had seen us leave, and also watched Teddy and Theed’s son go away.

“But the second man?” I demanded eagerly. “Can’t you give us any description of him?”

The maid hesitated, and fidgeted slightly. I saw that she was undecided and a little unwilling. Her hair was still awry from her attack, and she had forgotten, in her excitement, to replace her well-starched Dutch-cap.

“Well, sir,” she answered at last, “I have a suspicion—but only a very faint one—remember I couldn’t really see his face, for he sprang upon me from behind. But he spoke to his companion, and I thought I recognised his voice—only a faint suspicion,” the woman added. “Indeed, I don’t really like mentioning it, because I’m sure you’ll laugh at me. You’ll think it too absurd.”

“No. This is no laughing matter, Mulliner,” I said. “We are in deadly earnest. It is only right of you to tell us any suspicion that you entertain.”

“Well—to tell you the truth, sir, I thought I recognised the voice of a gentleman who often visits Cadogan Gardens—Mr Eastwell.”

“Eastwell!” I echoed. “Do you really think it was actually Mr Eastwell?”