"YOUR bird," wirelessed Lieutenant-Commander Ronald Tressidar, D.S.O., of H.M. Destroyer "Antipas."
"Thanks," was Barcroft's laconic reply.
"Stand by and pick up the pieces."
The "Antipas" approached rapidly, manoeuvring to keep bows on to the U-boat's stern. Fritz is a treacherous skunk to deal with. The modern pirates lack even the faint spark of chivalry that was to be occasionally met with in the German Navy during the earlier stages of the Great War. If the crew of the surrendered craft had an opportunity it was just possible that they might have let fly at the destroyer with a torpedo; consequently, in the knowledge that there was no sting in the submarine's tail, Tressidar took the precaution already referred to.
"Away whaler," ordered the lieutenant-commander. "I suppose the bounders have opened the sea-cocks, Mr. Holcombe, but make sure on that point."
The whaler was manned and lowered, withSub-Lieutenant Holcombe in command. Only a distance of two cables' lengths separated the "Antipas" from Barcroft's prize.
"We surrender!" announced von Loringhoven, as the boat ran alongside U 254.
"So I understand," replied Holcombe. "If you've been trying to scuttle your hooker, take my tip and close the valves. We are about to take you in tow."
"Himmel!" ejaculated the ober-leutnant. "It is impossible. Every plate in the hull is strained."
"I'll satisfy myself on that point," rejoined the sub. "If you play any monkey tricks there'll be trouble for the whole crowd of you."
Agilely Holcombe boarded the submarine, bidding the whaler lay off at two lengths' distance and not to take off any of the prisoners until he gave orders.
"I suppose," he remarked, addressing the ober-leutnant, "that every man on board is now on deck?"
"Yes, every man," declared von Loringhoven in an assumed tone of pained surprise. "For why do you ask?"
"Because," replied Holcombe, looking the ober-leutnant straight in the face, "one of our destroyers picked up two survivors of the s.s. 'Guiding Star' yesterday. Something seems to have gone wrong with yourspurlos versenktplans, Herr Kapitan. One of the menstated that the master of the tramp was taken on board U 254 as a prisoner. Where is he?"
Von Loringhoven was trembling like a leaf.
"I had forgotten him," he stammered.
It was only half a truth. In the wild rush for the open air the ober-leutnant had overlooked the fact that the staunch old British merchant skipper was still locked up in one of the store rooms. Afterwards he had decided to let the prisoner stay, since his appearance might lead to awkward questions being asked. With the amount of water already in the hull of the submarine, he argued with himself, no inquisitive Englishman would dare to go below to investigate. But he was very much mistaken.
"It is not too late to make reparation for your thoughtlessness, Herr Kapitan," said Holcombe sternly. "Lead the way below to where the prisoner is confined. I will accompany you."
Von Loringhoven began to give instructions in German to one of his men, but the sub shut him up very promptly.
"No deputies are permitted for this business," he observed. "Lead on, Herr Kapitan. For the second and last time, I order you. Until the master of the s.s. 'Guiding Star' is rescued, not a man of the crew of this vessel will be removed."
Several of the Huns who understood English immediately offered their services, but Holcombe "turned them down." His anger was aroused and he meant to give the brutally callous ober-leutnant a practical lesson.
In desperation von Loringhoven descended the steel ladder in the interior of the conning tower, Holcombe following him closely. By the aid of an electric torch the sub realised that the ober-leutnant's description of the state of the prize was not exaggerated. Already the water was ankle-deep above the floor, surging sullenly with every sluggish motion of the slowly foundering U-boat. In a dozen places jets of water were squirting through the strained plates, the sound of splattering liquid echoing and re-echoing in the confined space.
With a master-key von Loringhoven unlocked the door of the prisoner's cramped quarters. If he had expected to see a terrified man he was mistaken, for the sturdy old skipper was at least outwardly unperturbed.
"Glad you've come, sir," he exclaimed as he caught sight of a British naval uniform. "I thought it was all U P with me this time, but there was one consolation: I wasn't going to Davy Jones with a crowd of dirty Huns for messmates."
"If you don't look sharp and get a move on you'll have one at all events," said Holcombe, indicating the still trembling ober-leutnant, who was casting anxious glances, first at his late prisoner and then at the steadily rising water.
Upon regaining the deck the sub ordered the whaler alongside. The master of the "Guiding Star" was assisted into the stern-sheets: he was too weak with the reaction following his release to trust to his own limbs. Then, one by one, the prisoners were ordered into the boat, while Holcombe, with the ensign of the prize under his arm, was the last to leave. He was only just in time, for the U-boat's deck was now awash. Before the whaler had rowed a hundred yards U 254 brought her career of black and ignominious piracy to a close by seeking a final resting-place on the bed of the Atlantic.
"It's fortunate for those fellows that you are on board the 'Antipas,'" was Lieutenant-Commander Tressidar's greeting to the master mariner. "My sub, Mr. Holcombe, had definite instructions on that point."
"Murderous swine!" growled the skipper of the torpedoed tramp. "I haven't a doubt that they deliberately killed my two boats' crews in cold blood, although I didn't see it myself."
"All but two," corrected Tressidar. "One of our destroyers found them clinging to the wreckage of a boat. The bow portion was cut clean away and floated bottom upward. The poor fellows had the sense to get underneath, and so balked the Huns. Yes, justice will be done, although, thank goodness, retribution is in worthier hands than mine."
There was no sloppy sentimentality in Ronald Tressidar's character. Knowing the U-boat's crew to be pirates and murderers he treated them with scant consideration. Von Loringhoven, Kuhlberg, and their men were ordered below and placed under lock and key, while the "Antipas," having hoisted in the whaler, started off to overtake the still manfully labouring "Tantalus."
"By Jove, Holcombe!" observed the lieutenant-commander to his sub as they stood upon the bridge and kept the torpedoed cruiser under observation by means of their binoculars, "the old hooker looks like fetching home after all. She doesn't appear to be listing much more. Wonder where Barcroft has bundled off to?"
"The Blimp did jolly well, sir," remarked Holcombe. "Only I can't quite make out why she didn't pulverise the U-boat."
"Nor can I," agreed Tressidar. "I'd dearly like to pull Barcroft's leg over the business, only he might retaliate by asking how we came to miss the strafed Hun with our depth charge. Hullo! there's the Blimp—still strafing something, I believe."
The airship, almost invisible against the grey sky, was about ten miles astern. Two faintly muffled reports indicated the present nature of her business.
"Any wireless from 144A?" inquired Tressidar of the telegraphist.
"No, sir."
"Then get a message through. Inquire if any assistance is needed."
It was five minutes later, by which time the Blimp was lost to sight, that the reply came through.
"No assistance necessary. Mine-laying sub-marine properly strafed this time."
The lieutenant-commander and the sub exchanged glances.
"That's a nasty one," remarked Tressidar. "Barcroft's evidently blaming us for getting in his way when he kippered U 254. I remember——"
"Look, sir," interrupted Holcombe. "The old 'Tantalus' is going."
Levelling his glasses in the direction of the stricken cruiser, Tressidar realised that her end was nigh. Apparently a bulkhead had given way, admitting an enormous quantity of water, for the vessel was heeling to an angle of forty-five degrees, while her stern was lifting until the blades of the remaining propeller were churning the water into cauldrons of foam.
While the "Antipas" was hurrying to the assistance of the foundering "Tantalus" the lieutenant of the destroyer mounted the bridge.
"Here's a curious bit of documentary evidence to find on the person of a Hun, sir," he remarked, tendering Tressidar a folded piece of paper. "While we were examining the piratechief's belongings I came across this. It was in his pocket-book."
"H'm!" commented Tressidar. "This will want some explanation. A bill for a dinner for two at the Imperial Hotel, Trebalda. That's somewhere in North Cornwall, I believe. Let me see, what's the date? By Jove! The consummate cheek of the fellow. He was evidently ashore a little more than forty-eight hours ago."
"Up to some underhand mischief, I'll be bound, sir," remarked the lieutenant.
"Looks like it, Mr. Palmer," agreed the lieutenant-commander. "If you have no objection, I'll take charge of this scrap of paper. Meanwhile we have more urgent work in hand."
And he indicated the stricken cruiser, still battling gamely in her attempt to reach shallow water.
"SHE'LL do it, I fancy," remarked the officer of the watch as the sorely stricken "Tantalus" drew closer and closer to the shore.
The cruiser was making for a broad and comparatively shallow bay, now distant about two miles. Eight hours had elapsed since the torpedo had "got home," and the sun was sinking low in the west.
With two destroyers in close attendance there was little fear of loss of life unless the final catastrophe occurred so suddenly that the heroic engine-room officers and artificers and the stokers were trapped before they could make their way on deck. The remaining destroyers were patrolling at about two miles off, keeping a sharp look out in case another hostile submarine attempted to precipitate matters.
"It certainly looks as if we'll manage it," agreed Farrar. "Already we are in shoal water. The leadsman has just sung out, 'By the mark fifteen.'"
The lieutenant leant over the bridge rail. Thirty feet below and within a couple of yardsof the sea was a small grated platform projecting over the side. In normal conditions the leadsman's place was twenty-five feet above the water-line, but the cruiser had settled to such an extent and was listing so much to starboard that there was hardly room for the men to swing the weighty lead before releasing it.
"That's promising," agreed the officer of the watch. "Slogger, my festive, I'll give you a fiver for the motor-bike you bought from the marine officer."
"Thanks—no; I'll hold on to it," replied Farrar. "It will come in handy when I get my leave."
Even as he spoke a heavy cloud of smoke and steam issued from the funnels and steam pipes. Almost at the same time the labouring thuds of the hard-worked propeller ceased to be heard. Above the hiss of escaping vapour rang out the strident shouts of the bo'sun's mates as the engine-room ratings were ordered on deck.
"That's done it!" exclaimed the sub. "Suppose you won't reopen your offer?"
"Dead off," replied the lieutenant, laughing.
"That motor-bike will give the mermaids a chance of joy-riding.... Hullo! we're preparing to anchor."
Deep down the "Tantalus" carried but little way. Already her motion through the water was hardly perceptible. On the fo'c'sle thehands were hard at work clearing away, setting back the compressors and slacking off the cable-holders.
"Stream the buoy!"
Smartly the canvas-clad seamen stepped clear of the cable as the watch-buoy and rope were thrown over the side.
"Let go No. 1 Bower!"
Deftly a hand told off for the purpose removed the pin of the releasing lever; to the accompaniment of a rumbling, metallic sound, as the chain surged through the hawse-pipe, the enormous anchor, weighing a little over five tons, went plunging to the bottom.
The "Tantalus" brought up in nine fathoms, to settle on the sandy bed until the time came for that gaping hole in her side to be repaired.
The moment had now arrived for the order "Abandon ship!" With absolute precision and deliberation the davit boats on the starboard side were lowered. The sick-bay cases, with stewards in attendance, were the first to be sent away; the members of the diplomatic mission followed; and then the seamen took their places in the boats until the latter had received their full complement. The boats in davits on the port side were useless, owing to the extreme list of the ship, while with the final break-down in the engine room, steam could not be used to work the main derrick. Nor was it deemed advisable to get out the boom boats by hand,as the additional weight of the heavy craft would endanger the already slight reserve of stability of the heeling ship.
"We may have to swim for it yet, old boy," exclaimed Farrar, stooping to pat Bruno's head, for the St. Bernard seemed to realise instinctively that all was not well on board and had stuck resolutely at his master's heels.
Weird noises from 'tween decks announced that the list was growing so excessive as to cause all slightly secured gear to break adrift. The men still drawn up on the quarter deck and fo'c'sle were with difficulty retaining their foothold, for the steepness of the planks resembled the roof of a house.
All eyes were fixed upon the solitary figure of the captain as he grasped the guard-rails of the bridge. Still the order, "Each man for himself!" was not forthcoming, for the destroyers were closing upon the sinking ship.
With hardly the loss of a square inch of paint the "Antipas" ranged alongside the cruiser's starboard quarter, Tressidar's chief anxiety being to guard against the danger of his command being pinned down by the outswung davits, for the upper blocks of the falls were within a foot or eighteen inches of the destroyer's rail, while the lower blocks were clattering against her side.
"Jump for it, lads!" shouted the captain.
Then, and only then, did the rigidly straightand silent ranks break. In fifteen seconds four hundred officers and men, together with the varied assortment of ship's mascots, were safely on board the "Antipas," while a like number gained safety on the destroyer that had run alongside the cruiser and ahead of her consort.
In strict accordance with the ancient and honourable custom of the Senior Service the captain was the last to leave the ship. Descending from the bridge he made his way aft, saluting his command for the last time as he gained the quarter deck. Then, with the water up to his knees as he reached the lee side of the listing deck, he, too, found temporary refuge on the destroyer "Antipas."
With their numerous super-complements the two destroyers backed clear of the sinking ship, coming to a standstill at a distance of three cables from the veteran cruiser.
The end was not now long in coming. More and more grew the heel, until the after-funnel, bursting its wire guys, crashed over the side. Two more followed in quick succession; then, with a terrific rending of metal and woodwork, the for'ard 9.2-inch gun and its armoured hood lurched overboard, throwing up a column of spray that o'ertopped the slanting fore-truck.
Relieved of the ponderous weight the "Tantalus" recovered slightly, but the righting movement was but temporary. The inrush ofwater was as loud as the concentrated roar of a dozen mill-streams, while ever and again came the explosion of compressed air as the bulkheads gave way under the irresistible pressure.
Then the after 9.2-inch followed the example of the for'ard one, the muzzle of the enormous weapon ploughing up a large portion of the quarter deck before it toppled over the side.
The ends of the lower signal yardarms dipped beneath the water; the main-topmast, snapping just above the fire-control platform, disappeared, taking with it a tangled mass of wire and hemp cordage. Cowls, derricks, and a medley of deck gear were taking charge, while the heavy boom boats, breaking from their securing lashings, slid noisily into the sea.
Amidst a smother of foam, and surrounded by an archipelago of floating debris, the "Tantalus" fell right over on her beam ends, resting on the bottom with only a portion of her port battery showing above the still agitated water—the grey-painted metal tinted a ruddy hue in the last rays of the setting sun.
"Give the old ship a cheer, lads!" shouted her late captain.
The men gave three resounding cheers in the true old British style, the soft west wind catching the echoes and sending them far and wide across the lofty Cornish land; while the "Antipas" and her consorts bore away for the Trecurnow Naval Base.
"We've a pretty big crowd on board," remarked Holcombe to his chum Farrar. "You hardly expected to find yourselves shipmates with a horde of Huns, did you?"
"Shipmates with a horde of Huns?" repeated Farrar. "What do you mean?"
"Simply that we have the crew of the U-boat that torpedoed you safely under hatches."
"That's good!" exclaimed the R.N.V.R. sub. "We heard that you had strafed old Fritz, but having her crew on board is news—absolutely."
"And," continued Holcombe, "we were examining the prisoners' effects. In the kapitan's pocket-book we found a receipted bill for a double dinner at one of the leading hotels at Trebalda. The old sinner must have gone ashore in mufti, taking one of the officers with him most likely, or else he met a pal. Mark my words, there'll be some lively developments. The kapitan—von Loringhoven's his name, brother to that Zeppelin commander who raided Barborough last year—looked a bit silly when we found the document, but he wouldn't say how he got hold of it. It's up to some one to find out. So our skipper is going to send the bill to Scotland Yard."
"What's von Loringhoven like?" asked Nigel.
"Too much like an Anglo-Saxon to my idea," replied Holcombe. "Speaks English without a trace of a German accent."
"And his second-in-command?"
"Unspeakable," answered the destroyer's sub with a shrug of his shoulders. "A loose-lipped, chinless Hun, with an everlasting giggle that is ever present when he has the wind up properly. He speaks English after a fashion; but he'd give himself away before he opened his mouth."
"Then one may take it for granted that von Loringhoven's companion at dinner was not his unter-leutnant," decided Farrar. "I wonder if the fellow who tried to blow up Poldene Bridge had a hand in that evening's festivities?"
"You're a rum one for fantastic theories, Slogger," protested Holcombe.
"P'r'aps;" admitted Farrar; "but strange things happen in the war, you know."
"WHAT are you going to do with yourself, old man?" inquired Eric Greenwood, late assistant-paymaster of H.M.S. "Tantalus," after the court-martial had sat upon the survivors of the lost cruiser and, following its finding, the officers and men of the sunk vessel had been given fourteen days' leave.
"Hardly know yet," replied Farrar. "Run up to town, I expect—may get a bit of excitement there; or else look up some of my people's friends at Lymbury, although it's five years or more since we—that is, my parents—left the place. The governor's got a Staff job out in New Zealand."
"Look here," exclaimed the A.P. impetuously. "Come and sling your hammock at my people's place. My governor has just taken a house at Penkestle, close to where Tressidar's family hang out. The skipper of the 'Antipas' is my revered brother-in-law. I suppose you know that?"
Farrar shook his head.
"Well," continued Greenwood, "that'sneither here nor there as far as present circumstances stand. I have an open invite for any of my pals, so how about it? Fishing, shooting, and all that sort of thing, but I'm afraid motoring's dead off."
"Thanks, I'm on," accepted Farrar promptly. Truth to tell he had not been looking forward to his leave with pleasurable anticipations. "Knocking around" without any definite plan of action was distasteful to him, but the A.P.'s invitation put a totally different aspect upon things.
"But I say," he added dubiously, "what about Bruno?"
"Bruno, of course, stands in," declared Greenwood. "My people are very keen on dogs—large ones especially. I'll wire off at once, and we'll catch the 4.45 from Trecurnow. We'll have to change at St. Penibar."
"Where is Penkestle?" asked the sub.
"About four miles from Trebalda: you know where that place is?"
"Heard of it," admitted Farrar. "Holcombe mentioned that the kapitan of U 254 was supposed to have landed there in mufti. Right-o; I'll have my gear together by lunch-time. Hear that, Bruno? We're off to a country-house. A change for you, old boy, after a crowded mess-deck."
The St. Bernard blinked solemnly, as if to imply that he didn't care a brass farthingwhether he was on dry land or on the heaving deck of a ship as long as he was in his master's company.
Although only a distance of fifty miles it was seven o'clock before the two young officers arrived at Trebalda Station.
"There's the governor!" exclaimed Eric. "Come along, old man. Pater, let me introduce you to my pal Slogger, otherwise Nigel Farrar, one of the homeless waifs from the old 'Tantalus.' And Bruno, of the same reliable firm."
Mr. Greenwood greeted the sub warmly, although he eyed the huge St. Bernard with misgivings.
"Er—Bruno's almost as big as a donkey," he observed, "but we can't put him out to grass. Still, we'll do our best for him in the commissariat department."
"All ready, pater?" inquired Eric, lifting his portmanteau from the platform.
"Far from it, my boy," replied his parent. "Put that thing on a seat and have a smoke. I'm killing two birds with one stone—hence the ponderous conveyance."
And he indicated a five-seater car waiting outside the station gates.
"What's the move, then?" inquired the A.P.
"More visitors," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Fortunately the house is large. An old friendof mine—one I haven't seen for over twenty years—is arriving by the down train. Barcroft's his name—Peter Barcroft. You've heard me mention him?"
"By Jove, that's strange!" remarked Farrar. "The Blimp johnny who strafed our pal U 254 is a Barcroft. Any relation, I wonder?"
"Yes, his son," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Peter mentioned that his son Billy was in the Naval Air Service. Good, the signal's down. The train seems pretty punctual."
"Come here, Bruno," ordered the sub, noticing that the animal was rubbing his muzzle against the hand of a dark-featured man who was standing by the ticket-gate.
"I don't mind," exclaimed the man, patting the St. Bernard's head. "Used to animals, you know. Fine brute."
With a casual movement he glanced at the dog's collar—a silver-plated one inscribed "Bruno—Sub-Lieutenant N. Farrar, R.N.V.R., H.M.S. 'Tantalus.'"
"H'm!" he muttered. "Quite a coincidence. ...Here! Good dog, go to your master."
Just then the train ran into the station. Amidst the loud noise of doors opening and shutting about a dozen passengers boarded the train, while nearly three times that number alighted. Amongst them was a well-set-up, clean-shaven man in a Norfolk suit.
"Hullo, Greenwood!" he exclaimed briskly.
"Pleased to meet you again after all this long time. By Jove, I recognise you, you see. Looking jolly fit, too."
"I feel fit," admitted his friend. "Work on the land, drilling with the Gorgeous Wrecks, making myself generally useful, and all that sort of thing, don't you know. And war rations suit me, too. Feel twenty years younger than I did before the war, and, by Jove, I'm my own carpenter, bricklayer, plumber, and a dozen other trades rolled into one. If I had known as much ten years ago as I do now, I would have saved hundreds of pounds in wages. But I'm forgetting: my son, Eric; his friend, Mr. Farrar—Mr. Farrar knows your boy, I believe."
"Only by name," corrected the sub. "As a matter of fact he was in command of the Blimp that strafed the U-boat that did us in. We're late of the 'Tantalus.'"
"Oh, was he?" remarked Peter Barcroft drily. "First I've heard of it. Precious little news I get from Billy about his doings."
"True to the traditions of the Great Silent Navy," observed the A.P. "Of course we don't like advertising, but there are times when various little incidents will out."
"Look here," interrupted Mr. Greenwood, beaming affably. "If you are about to start a debate on the subject of the Royal Navy, I'll order the car to return in three hours' time. I say, Barcroft——"
But Peter Barcroft had broken away from the group. Nigel Farrar caught sight of him shaking the hand of the individual who had been fondling his dog.
"Bless my soul, Entwistle!" exclaimed Peter. "What on earth are you doing down here—shadowing me?"
"Hope I shan't have to do that again," replied Philip Entwistle, Secret Service Agent. "I'm on the track of a fellow who dined at an hotel here with the captain of a German submarine. Keep the information to yourself, although before long I may have to enlist the aid of these naval officers. That St. Bernard gave me a clue. Oh, by the by, how are your dogs, Ponto and Nan?"
"Fit as ever, short commons notwithstanding," replied Peter. "I didn't bring them down with me, to their great discontent. Well, I mustn't keep my old friend Greenwood any longer. I'll be bound to run across you in a day or so."
"Who's that fellow, Peter?" asked Mr. Greenwood as the four men and Bruno boarded the waiting car.
"An old friend of mine, a veterinary surgeon," explained Mr. Barcroft. "He lives but a few miles from me. The world is small. I hardly expected to find him here."
A quarter of an hour later the car pulled up at "The Old Croft," at Penkestle, a long, two-storied stone building like many another to be found in Cornwall.
"Show Farrar his room, Eric," said Mr. Greenwood after the guests had been introduced to Mrs. Greenwood and her two daughters: Doris, now Mrs. Ronald Tressidar, and Winifred, a lively girl of seventeen or eighteen. "I'll take Peter to his temporary quarters. Dinner is when, my dear?"
"At eight, for this night only," replied Mrs. Greenwood. "Now, girls, set to. We've each our allotted tasks now, owing to the shortage of servants," she explained. "Eric, you've come home at a very opportune moment."
"How's that, mater?" asked the A.P.
"There's no meat for to-morrow, so you can organise a rabbit-shooting party. You'll like to take a gun, Mr. Farrar?"
"Rather," replied the sub with alacrity.
"And Mr. Barcroft?" inquired the A.P.
Peter was in the act of following his host upstairs. He stopped and shook his head.
"Thanks," he replied. "I'm not taking any just at present," he observed. "Used to do a lot of shooting on the moors. Saw a man... an—er—acquaintance, or, rather, a neighbour, messed about pretty badly through his gun bursting.... He died soon after. It put me off absolutely."
"I'll come, Eric," said Winifred. "That is, if you want me. And you can lend meyour small gun. Those twelve-bores kick so."
"Delighted, Freddy, I'm sure," exclaimed her brother with genuine pleasure. "Farrar, old bird, you'll have to look to your laurels. Freddy is a regular terror when she's after bunnies."
Soon after breakfast the following morning the three guns set out, accompanied by a pair of silky-haired spaniels, greatly to Bruno's resentment, for to the St. Bernard things didn't seem at all right that his master should take a couple of insignificant and strange dogs for a stroll, while he was condemned to spend the morning locked up in a shed.
"By Jove, this air is great!" remarked the sub, as they crossed a stile and gained the open moor. "Your governor couldn't have chosen more desolate surroundings, Greenwood. Not a sign of a human being or a habitation for miles ahead. Look here, Miss Greenwood, allow me to carry your gun."
The A.P. laughed as his sister shook her head resolutely.
"Freddy likes to be independent," he observed. "I say, Farrar, you've just told a terminological inexactitude; where are your eyes? There's some one coming this way."
"Yes, you're right," admitted Farrar. "And, strange enough, it's the fellow we saw on Trebalda Station platform: the one who spoke to Mr. Barcroft, you remember?"
"Good morning," exclaimed Entwistle, raising his cap as he approached. "Can you direct me to 'The Croft'?"
"You are going to see your friend, Mr. Barcroft, I presume?" asked the A.P. after giving the required direction. "You are Mr. Entwistle, I think?"
"I am," admitted the Secret Service man, wondering how much Peter had said about him. "And how is your St. Bernard, Mr. Farrar?"
It was the sub's turn to be surprised, only, unlike Entwistle, he expressed it openly.
"I saw your name on the dog's collar," explained Entwistle. "Well, don't let me detain you. I wish you good sport."
"We are bound to see you at lunch," said Eric. "The governor will insist upon your staying."
"You are very hospitable," remarked Entwistle.
"Not at all," protested the A.P. "Simply my governor's deputy, don't you know. The fact that you are a friend of Mr. Barcroft is sufficient guarantee for me to ask you."
The Secret Service man, still in the dark as to how much the young naval officer knew of his affairs, raised his cap to Winifred and hastened in the direction of "The Old Croft," while the trio resumed their way.
"Time to load," remarked Eric as they found themselves confronted by a rounded hill, theface of which was studded with gorse and heather. "We'll be bound to have some sport before we get to the top of Plas Tor. Keep fifty yards apart, and go dead in the eye of the wind: that's the move."
Before Farrar had cautiously covered a distance of a hundred yards, the while ascending the somewhat broken ground, a rabbit, surprised in the open, bolted from almost under his feet. He raised his gun, pulled both triggers—and missed. Somewhat to his mortification a shot rang out on his left and down dropped bunny like a stone.
"Simply had to do it," said Winifred, extracting the still smoking cartridge from her gun. "You let off too soon, Mr. Farrar: before the shots had time to spread."
"A clinking shot that of yours, any way," exclaimed the sub enthusiastically. "Eighty yards."
"Say sixty," corrected the girl, taking the rabbit from one of the spaniels. "Better luck next time, Mr. Farrar."
The sub reloaded, conscious at the same time of a numbing pain in his right shoulder. Letting off both barrels of a twelve-bore simultaneously, he reflected, causes the gun to recoil considerably more than the comparatively slight kick of a .303 Service rifle.
Without the chance of another shot the three "sportsmen" gained the summit of the tor,the A.P. looking considerably dejected at his failure as a prophet.
"Last time I was on leave I bagged seven on this hill," he declared in substantiation of his shattered claim. "Wonder what's up with the little beasts to-day?"
"I see by the papers that rabbits are included in meat rations," observed Winifred. "Consequently, as in other cases, there is an immediate shortage. If only the Controller would place U-boats on the list of controlled articles, they, too, would doubtless disappear."
"Hard lines on submarine hunters, then," added the A.P. "My worthy brother-in-law would be hard up for a job; and as for young Barcroft——"
"Allow me to remind you," interrupted the sub, "that discussing U-boat strafers won't find the ingredients for a rabbit pie. Which way now, old bird?"
Eric Greenwood shaded his eyes and gazed down into the valley, that literally simmered in the blazing sunshine. Everywhere wisps of mist were rising as the sun's rays beat upon the dew-sodden grass.
"We'll try in the direction of Bold Tor," he replied. "It's a good three miles, but we can have something to eat when we get to the top and still get back well in time for lunch."
For the best part of an hour the three guns proceeded at varying distances apart, butill-luck attended them. Not another rabbit was to be seen, despite the fact that the girl and her two companions moved with deliberate stealth, with the well-trained dogs following silently at Winifred's heels.
"Slow sport," soliloquised the sub. "Well, thank goodness, we're nearly to the top of Broad Tor; then we can ease our jaw-tackle. Hanged if I like being as silent as a Trappist monk."
Suddenly, two swift, brownish objects darted from the cover of a gorse-bush. Farrar had a momentary glimpse of two white tails as the animals changed course and bolted for a place of refuge—a honey-combed bank overhung with low bushes.
Mindful of Winifred's warning, he fired at forty yards. Down dropped one rabbit, kicking frantically, while the other, partly crippled, struggled towards the nearmost hole. With his gun still at the shoulder the sub fired the second barrel.
"Hurrah!" he shouted involuntarily, as the second rabbit dropped; but as he started to run to secure his prizes, he caught a brief glance of a man's head and shoulders above the bushes, one side of his face streaming with blood, ere he dropped to the ground.
"Well done!" exclaimed the A.P., who on hearing the shots was hastening towards the sub.
"Far from it," said Farrar in a low voice."I say, keep Miss Greenwood back out of it; I've plugged some poor bounder."
"Rot!" exclaimed the A.P. incredulously.
"Fact," protested the luckless sportsman. "Be quick, man! Take her away out of it."
Leaving Greenwood to attempt the futile task the sub forced his way through the undergrowth till he came to the spot where his victim dropped. Lying face downwards on a small plot of grass was a tall, well-built man, unconscious, but breathing stertorously. A cloth cap was hung up in the bushes, having evidently been blown there by a portion of the charge of No. 6 shot. The cap had to a certain extent protected its wearer, for beyond a few slight scratches the top of his head was untouched; but from the right temple downwards to the neck the hard-hitting pellets had done their work only too well.
While Farrar was attempting to render first-aid the A.P. and his sister arrived upon the scene, Winifred insisting on giving her assistance as a member of the V.A.D.
"It looks a worse case than it actually is," she declared in her best professional manner. "And there's no water to be had nearer than the village. The best thing we can do is to get him to the house."
"But how?" asked her brother. "It is almost impossible to get a cart of any description over this rough ground."
"We'll have to carry him," replied Winifred. "Get a couple of those young trees," and she pointed to a clump of ash saplings, the only trees to be found for miles, though fortunately close at hand.
Quickly Eric felled two of the young trees by the simple expedient of firing a charge of shot into each at close range. A knife soon cleared off the shoots, and a pair of serviceable poles, ten or twelve feet in length, were at the disposal of the amateur ambulance party.
The two men's coats—they were in mufti—were then pressed into service to complete the rough-and-ready stretcher, and with Winifred walking by the patient's side to steady any unwonted jolt to the conveyance, the sub and the A.P. carried their unconscious burden, one of the dogs being left to guard the guns until they could be sent for.
It was a back-aching task. The man was heavy, the way rough, and the heat terrific, yet gamely the two naval officers "carried on," resolutely declining to allow Miss Greenwood to bear a hand with the stretcher. Not until they were within a mile of "The Croft" did they fall in with a sturdy Cornish countryman, who willingly relieved Eric of his share. A little farther on another villager was able to perform a like service to the fairly "baked" Farrar, and by the time the party drew within sight of the house nearly a score of curious country folktailed on. An intelligent youth volunteered to ride on his cycle into Trebalda to fetch a doctor, while the rest of the crowd of spectators hung about the gates as the stretcher was borne through the grounds to the house.
"EXCUSE me," said Mr. Greenwood diplomatically, after having welcomed his guest's friend and given him a second invitation to lunch. "I've some work to do in the garden, but I know you two would like to have a yarn together. If, however," he added as he made for the door, "you are in need of a little gentle exercise before lunch I can introduce you to a really healthful and intellectual task—chopping wood. Failing that there are two serviceable prongs in the tool-house."
"Genial old chap," remarked Entwistle, after Mr. Greenwood had gone, "and jolly thoughtful too. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see you alone. Look here, Barcroft, to put a straight question: Did you say anything to young Farrar about my business here?"
Peter shook his head.
"I simply told him you were a vet., and a friend of mine from Barborough," he replied. "As to your business here I'm quite in the dark."
A look of relief flashed across Entwistle's features.
"That's good," he remarked. "It's rather a complex case, and Farrar may be able to render material assistance. I'm on the track of the Poldene Bridge business. I have reason to believe that the kapitan of the U-boat that torpedoed the 'Tantalus' knows something about it. You heard the details?"
"From Farrar and young Greenwood," admitted Peter. "You see, they told me the yarn in connection with that St. Bernard of Farrar's."
"Yes," added the Secret Service man. "That rather baffles me—the dog, I mean. Since I've been in Trebalda I've been on the track of the man who dined with von Loringhoven. The waiter at the hotel led me a pretty dance, and for three days I shadowed a highly respectable London banker who happened to be staying at Trebalda for a month. The waiter, it seems, got mixed up between the banker and a commercial traveller of the name of Middlecrease: that's the man I want—and he's disappeared."
"In what way is the dog concerned?" asked Barcroft.
"I'm coming to that," continued Entwistle. "You see, the fellow who attempted to blow up the bridge answers in description to this Middlecrease, putting aside the difference in clothes. But if Middlecrease were the man it is fairly safe to assume that the St. Bernardhe had with him would be well known in this district. Unfortunately the animal was not known to any one until Farrar brought him up by train."
"How did you get on the fellow's track?" inquired Peter.
"From documents found at von Eitelwurmer's house," replied Entwistle. "He was not mentioned by name, but by a number; and from the importance of the numerous references made to him he was evidently one of the heads of the German Secret Service in England, which most people are now beginning to realise as an active and dangerous menace."
"Hope you'll be successful," remarked Barcroft.
"I'll do my level best," rejoined Entwistle. "However, I must wait and have a quiet yarn with Farrar when he returns. There are one or two points I want to go into."
For some moments the two men smoked in silence.
"Seen to-day's paper?" asked Peter.
The Secret Service man shook his head.
"Rarely look at one now-a-days; muzzled a jolly sight too much," he replied. "There's precious little consolation to be found in them. Russia, food-tickets, U-boat menace, tip-and-run raids in the Channel and off the East Coast, general mismanagement—enough to put a fellow off colour absolutely. Anything much this morning?"
"No—only that Sir James Timberhead has resigned."
The Secret Service man snorted indignantly.
"Resigned!" he exclaimed. "These resignations make me feel sick. First this official and then that, hopelessly incompetent nobodies pushed into soft jobs by influential friends, and then can't manage them. I'd make 'em resign—fine them a year's salary. Just think what would happen if Tommy or Jack resigned their jobs—they'd find themselves in front of a firing party in less than no time. Yet every day you'll read that So-and-so has resigned his post owing to ill-health—there's no 'medicine and duty' for them, worse luck!"
"Admitted," replied Barcroft. "But if you are in need of a wholesome tonic, might I suggest an hour or so of young Farrar's or young Greenwood's company. You'll learn something of what's doing, Entwistle. You'll have to drag it from them, but putting two and two together you'll find that the Navy is still the mainstay of the Empire."
"Pity, then, that the man-in-the-street hasn't an opportunity of finding it out," growled Barcroft's companion.
"D'ye mind if I open this window? Jolly warm for the time of year, isn't it?"
Entwistle walked to the window. Then, with his hand on the catch, he exclaimed:
"My word, Barcroft! Something's happened. There's a stretcher being carried up the drive."
Peter was by his friend's side in an instant. He, too, could see the throng of country folk around the gate as they parted to allow the improvised stretcher to pass.
"It's not Miss Greenwood," he decided, giving voice to his thoughts, and not heeding his companion's presence. "Nor Eric.... And there's Farrar. Now, who have they shot?"
"Perhaps no one," remarked Entwistle. "An accident entirely unconnected with the guns."
He threw open the French window and the two men hurried to meet the stretcher, forestalled, however, by Mr. Greenwood, who, in his agitation, had forgotten that he was shouldering a huge wood-cutter's axe and bore a resemblance to the Lord High Executioner.
"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Greenwood.
"Unfortunately I——" began the sub, but Mr. Entwistle raised a warning hand.
"Leave details for the present," he cautioned in a low voice. "Don't incriminate yourself before a crowd. Doctor's been sent for? Good! Where shall we take him, Mr. Greenwood?"
The injured man was taken to a spare bedroom, where his face was washed and his numerous wounds temporarily dressed pending the doctor's arrival.
This done Entwistle drew the sub aside.
"Where did the accident take place?" he asked.
Farrar told him, adding that the shooting party had left the guns there.
"Too tired for a walk?" inquired the Secret Service man.
"Not at all," replied the sub, rather surprised at the invitation. "I'll bring Bruno, too. And Greenwood?"
"Better leave him out of your calculations for the present," decided Entwistle. "I'll get you to offer excuses to our host. Bringing home the guns will be quite a satisfactory pretext."
It was not until the two men were a good distance from the house and well on their way across the moors that Entwistle remarked:
"I may as well be quite open with you, Farrar, knowing that I can rely upon an officer and a gentleman to be discreet. I presume that you are not aware that I am a member of the British Secret Service?"
"A 'tec?" inquired the sub, without betraying any unwonted surprise. "I'm not going to be arrested for manslaughter, I hope?"
"Far from it," replied Entwistle; "especially as the victim is in no great danger from the pellets. He is, nevertheless, in a very hazardous position, for which I have to thank you."
"Me?" exclaimed the sub incredulously.
"Certainly. The fellow you shot is a man who is greatly in request. He is none other than Thomas Middlecrease, known in Germany and elsewhere as Ernst von Gobendorff, and, I venture to suggest, the principal in the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge."
"I saw the man on the train," remarked Farrar. "He was in military uniform. Hanged if I could see much resemblance to the man I shot—build, perhaps, but nothing else."
"The peppering of the pellets made a very efficient disguise," said Entwistle. "The anguish of the wounds tends to contract the facial muscles. I hope you will be able to identify him. Your dog, Bruno, may also be able to afford us some assistance. Hullo! here's the faithful spaniel on guard, I see."
"And there's the place where the man was when I fired," explained the sub. "See, the gorse shows the track of the pellets."
Entwistle made no remark, but forced his way through the bushes by the same track as the one made by the two officers when they carried von Gobendorff away from the scene.
"H'm!" he exclaimed softly as his hand closed upon the butt of a small but extremely powerful automatic pistol that lay partly hidden in the long grass. "Friend Gobendorff was evidently under the impression that you two fellows were tracking him, the presence of Miss Greenwood notwithstanding. He meantto make a fight for it. From the impressions upon the ground I take it that the fellow was kneeling up and looking first in your direction and then towards young Greenwood. The safety-catch of this weapon being released tends to confirm my belief that he meant to make use of the pistol. It was at the moment that he was looking at your friend that the pellets caught him, otherwise he would have received a great portion of the charge full in the face instead of the side of the face."
"Then a thundering good job I did plug the Hun!" declared the sub vehemently. He was not vindictive by nature, but the thought of being in danger of being ambushed and shot down by a skulking assassin riled him. "Better be moving, I suppose? If you'll carry one gun I'll tackle the others. Those rabbits? Yes, I'll bring them along. Poor little beasts; fancy being laid out by the same charge of shot that kippered the Boche spy. Horribly degrading for poor bunny. I say, rummy spot for a spy, isn't it? Did he have an inkling that you were on his track?"
"One cannot tell," replied Entwistle. "My theory is that he was making for a certain cottage, where, from information received, I know the fellow had previously obtained a quantity of explosives. I mean to collar those fellows this afternoon. The time's ripe."
"Single-handed?" inquired the sub.
"If necessary."
"I'd like to have a cut in with you, Entwistle," said Farrar impetuously.
"It's hardly your job," rejoined the Secret Service man dubiously. "There may be a tough sort of scrap."
"In which case two are better than one——"
"Provided each knows his job and doesn't bungle," added Entwistle. "All right, then; it's a bargain. Not a word to the others, mind. I am keeping my friend Peter quite in the dark. Do you understand an automatic?"
"Most makes," admitted the sub.
"Then have this," said his companion, handing him the weapon belonging to the Hun. "I've taken the precaution to set the safety-catch."
"How about you; aren't you armed?" asked the sub.
Entwistle smiled grimly "Trust me," he replied briefly.
At length the two men came within sight of "The Old Croft," outside the gate of which a throng of curious villagers still lingered, while in the carriage drive a motor-car was standing—an indication that the doctor from Trebalda had arrived.
Just as Entwistle and Farrar gained the door the medical man appeared. "How is the patient, doctor," inquired Entwistle.
"Progressing favourably," was the reply.
"Fit to be moved?"
"The day after to-morrow."
"Not to-day?"
The doctor regarded his questioner curiously.
"Why this hurry?"
"I'm in charge of him," declared the Secret Service man.
"I happen to know Mr. Middlecrease as a resident of Trebalda," observed the medical man drily; "and I was not aware that he was in any one's charge."
"Look here," exclaimed Entwistle, drawing the doctor aside. "You've forced my hand, so to speak. This man, Middlecrease, is under arrest as a noted German spy. Naturally I don't want the Greenwoods to know anything about it at present; and still less do I want them to have a Hun in their house, especially as he might take it into his head to vanish during the night."
"Bless my soul, you surprise me!" ejaculated the doctor. "What do you want me to do?"
"To order his removal to a nursing establishment in Trebalda," replied the Secret Service man. "I'll keep my eye on him there. Also, I know I can rely upon your silence."
"Very good," was the reply. "I'll send a motor ambulance along at—what time?"
"Say eight," rejoined Entwistle. "That will leave ample time for our little adventure, Mr. Farrar."