"YOU'RE a bright sort of friend, Entwistle," was Peter's greeting. "Pushing off with young Farrar and leaving me in solitary contemplation of our host's library. Well, did you get any very important information?"
Entwistle groaned in mock dismay.
"Another of them!" he exclaimed dismally. "Bless my soul, Barcroft, have I to let you into the know, too?"
"You came a cropper once when you didn't take me into your confidence——"
"Don't rub it in," protested the Secret Service man. "I'll crypeccavi. But to return to our original subject. To be brief, young Farrar knocked over my bird. The fellow he shot is von Gobendorff. I've arranged for the man to be moved to Trebalda to-night. Meanwhile—and this is where you come in handy, Peter—Farrar and I are off to complete the coup, and I want you to cover our tracks."
The promise given, Entwistle's spirits rose, when at length, at about four in the afternoon,he bade his host farewell, Barcroft casually suggested that perhaps Farrar would like to walk part of the way with him.
"I'd go myself," added Peter, "only this confounded ankle of mine—an old injury, you know. Besides, Greenwood, we've got a lot to talk about old times."
Farrar and his companion kept along the Trebalda road until they were quite half a mile from the village of Penkestle, then making a considerable detour, they found themselves on the open moor, and roughly three miles N.W. of Broad Tor.
"Here's the spot," said Entwistle, unfolding a large-scale Ordnance map, during a halt made in order to charge and light pipes. "The cottage is shown—about fifty yards from the shaft of a disused copper mine. Whether the two suspects are deliberate traitors to their country, or whether they are unwillingly the tools of the unscrupulous von Gobendorff, remains to be proved; but they are tough characters, so we must be prepared for strong action."
Keeping to the low-lying ground as far as possible, the two men stealthily approached the stone cottage, until it lay revealed at a distance of about a hundred yards. That it was not deserted was evident by a wreath of pale-grey smoke rising into the still air, while tethered to a ring in its stonework was a small,sturdily-built Cornish pony, with a pair of panniers slung across its back.
"Looks like a flit, Farrar," remarked his companion. "I'll go first. You remain here. If I whistle, one blast will mean that things are progressing favourably, and you can help me round them up. Two blasts mean that there is trouble, so don't forget to keep your pistol handy."
Entwistle deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe and placed it in a stout leather case.
"Don't want to have an old pal broken in the scrap," he observed, as he put the case into an inner breast-pocket. "Well,au revoir."
Concealed behind a suitably situated clump of gorse Farrar watched the retreating form of his late companion until the latter gained the blank wall of the cottage, and then edged towards the window.
For some moments Entwistle listened, crouching under the sill of the window, then he boldly tried the door. It was locked. The sound of a peremptory knock wafted to the sub's ears. A little interval and the door was thrown open, and the Secret Service man disappeared from Farrar's view.
Five long-drawn minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did Entwistle give indication of the progress of his efforts. The sub was becoming anxious when two shrill blastsrent the air. Entwistle was in difficulty and called for aid.
Pistol in hand, Farrar cleared the intervening stretch of rough ground and dashed through the open doorway to his companion's assistance.
In his impetuosity the sub forgot to exercise due caution. A stick was thrust betwixt his legs, and, tripping, Farrar measured his length upon the ground. Slightly dazed by his fall, the sub was hiked up in the clutches of two burly men—a prisoner—and his automatic weapon taken from him.
Vainly he attempted to break away, but an excruciating pain warned him that his captors were applying a most efficacious arm-lock. To struggle more would mean a broken limb.
"Are you sure that there are no more of these prying Englanders, Schranz?" inquired one of the men, speaking in German.
The person addressed—he was the man who had bungled with the signals on the occasion of the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge—went out, to return presently with the information that everything appeared quiet.
"It is well," rejoined the leader of the gang. "Now to settle with these meddlesome interlopers."
"It is easier said than done," remarked another.
The sub was taking stock of his surroundings. In a corner, and protected to a certain extentby an overthrown table, stood Entwistle, seemingly unperturbed at the danger that confronted him. Instead of two suspects there were four powerfully built men to be reckoned with.
"We'll wait till it's quite dark," resumed the last speaker, "and then these Englanders will be able to test the depth of the shaft. It is better than having recourse to pistol shots; and if their bodies are ever found, well, it will be concluded that they have met with a regrettable accident."
"Why wait?" grumbled Schranz. "Everything is clear outside. Every moment is precious, if we are to get away with whole skins."
"All right," assented the leader. "Two of us will be sufficient to keep the old one in order; you others can remove the young one. Don't be long about it."
With pistols in their hands the two Huns detailed to guard Entwistle covered their prisoner, while the others, seizing Farrar, began to haul him out of the cottage, despite a strenuous resistance on the part of the sub.
So fierce was the struggle that Entwistle's guards turned their heads to watch the fracas. It was exactly what the Secret Service man was waiting for. Without removing his right hand from his hip pocket he fired two shots in rapid succession.
With a yell one of his captors leapt a couple of feet into the air and fell in a huddled massupon the earth floor.
image: 05_farrar.jpg{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAULHIM OUT OF THE COTTAGE." [p.172.}
The other spun round, made a futile attempt to raise his pistol and subsided heavily across the body of his companion.
Intent upon their particular task, Schranz and the fourth man had not realised the turn of events before Entwistle, watching his opportunity, placed a bullet through the former's right arm. Without a great risk of hitting the sub, Entwistle could not fire at the remaining miscreant.
Farrar was now quite equal to the occasion. Finding, although unaccountably to him, that he was engaged against only one man he let drive with a powerful left-hander. His fist struck the Hun fairly and squarely on the chin, and the man dropped like a log.
"Rather warm while it lasted," remarked Entwistle nonchalantly. "'Fraid I've spoilt a good pair of trousers. Any damage?"
"Not to me," replied Farrar. "By Jove! I made a most unholy bungle."
"And so did I," admitted his companion. "So you've nothing to brag about. I was quite under the impression that there were only two of the fellows here, and it gave me a bit of a shock to find four. It's a handy trick, Farrar, to know how to use a pistol without removing it from your hip pocket."
"You might as well extinguish the embers," remarked Farrar.
Entwistle clapped his hand to his smouldering garment.
"Thought I could sniff something burning," he said. "There are advantages and disadvantages to most things, and a pistol fired from one's pocket is no exception. Sorry I landed you in a bit of a mess."
"Not at all," protested the sub. "You saved me from—well—a long and decidedly unpleasant fall. What's the depth of a mine shaft?"
"Anything from two hundred to four hundred feet," was the reply. "As a matter of fact I had no doubts on that score. I knew that one against four was long odds, and reckoned on a division of work when you were collared. It was then an easy matter to dispose of a couple of the bounders, and that equalised things.... No, you don't, Fritz; hands up and behave yourself!"
This was to the man Schranz, who was furtively eyeing the open door, the while nursing his bullet-punctured arm. The fellow whom Farrar had floored was still in a dazed condition, muttering incoherently. Of the others, the leader of the gang was stone dead, Entwistle's shot having penetrated the brain; the other was fast shuffling off this mortal coil.
Deftly the sub dressed the arm of his late antagonist, for the small-calibre bullet had ripped an artery.
"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.
"Go without dinner, I'm afraid," replied Entwistle. He glanced at his watch.
"In another thirty-five minutes," he announced, "we will hand over our prisoners to the local police. I took the precaution this afternoon of telephoning to the superintendent at Trebalda. The cottage will be locked up and seals attached to the doors. To-morrow I can investigate its contents at my leisure. Now, our immediate business completed, I think we'll have a pipe—try this tobacco."
"How about a few hours ashore?" asked Sub-Lieutenant Farrar. "There's a boat at seven bells, I hear."
"Only too delighted," replied Eric Greenwood. "It looks an interesting old show."
Five weeks had elapsed since the events recorded in the previous chapter. The two chums, appointed to the "Zenodorus," were proceeding to Malta on a transport for the purpose of joining their new ship. Owing to the intricate route taken by the "Timon," the transport conveying eight hundred troops to Salonika, fifteen days had elapsed since the two young officers sailed from Plymouth, and at the present rate of progress the "Timon" might, with luck, drop anchor in the Grand Harbour at Valletta in about another five days' time.
At present she was lying off Arezzo, a seaport on the Italian coast between Genoa and Naples, occupying a mooring close to the well-guarded entrance to the natural harbour. At another buoy a cable's length astern (the transport waslying head to wind in the tideless waters) was a large grey-hulled merchantman flying the Italian flag. Alongside one of the wharfs were two submarines displaying the red, white, and green ensign of Italy, and another with the tricolour of France. A Greek dispatch boat and half a dozen patrol craft completed the number of Allied vessels in the harbour of Arezzo.
"A whacking lump of a boat," remarked the A.P., indicating the merchantman. "Wonder why she's here? I should think there's hardly enough water for a vessel of her draught."
"She's the 'Giuseppe,' I understand," replied Farrar. "Chock-a-block with American-manufactured munitions for the Italian front. Water? She's in eleven fathoms at the very least. Hullo, ready? The steam-boat's alongside."
In the company of about a dozen naval and military officers the two chums descended the accommodation-ladder and entered the waiting boat, their departure being followed by the envious glances of hundreds of Tommies, to whom the opportunity of setting foot on Italian soil was denied.
"Not much of a show," commented Greenwood after the two officers had explored the narrow street that formed the principal thoroughfare of the town of Arezzo. "The place looks jolly picturesque at a distance, but on a closeracquaintance one's enthusiasm is apt to fall flat."
"I vote we get some grub before we go on board," suggested Farrar. "By Jove, look at those oranges! And the price! After paying fivepence each for them in England a dozen for a copper coin corresponding to our penny does seem a bit cheap."
"Not being able to export them, I suppose they have to practically give them away," remarked the A.P. "On the other hand, look at the price of coal here. I've been working it out: it's something like £13 a ton."
"There's one thing," rejoined the sub, speaking somewhat at random, "it's too jolly hot here for coal to be in great demand. Here, before we get anything to eat let's have a look at the railway station. I always had a weakness for watching trains."
A troop train was drawn up alongside the low platform. Hundreds of reservists from Campania and Calabria were being hurried northward to the Venetian plains—slim olive-feature men, short of stature, yet looking full of enthusiasm. Catching sight of two British naval officer the soldiers opened a wordy fire to the accompaniment of fantastic gestures.
"Perhaps it is as well that we don't understand Italian," laughed the A.P., as the train, the carriages of which being of the most modern trans-continental type, moved out of the station,while almost immediately behind another train that had been waiting at a siding drew up.
There was no mistaking the nationality of the occupants of the dingy, grimy carriages. At every window appeared cheerful, sun-tanned faces.
From one of thewagons-à-litdescended three or four officers, looking begrimed, unshorn, and dog-tired, but nevertheless full of buoyant spirits.
"Hullo!" facetiously exclaimed one, addressing Farrar and his companion. "This looks better. Don't say we have arrived at Calais at last?"
"A few miles farther," replied the sub.
"And an hour's stop at every hundred yards—almost," rejoined the military man. "Arezzo, eh? Five hundred miles from Taranto, an' we've only taken three days an' three nights—bless 'em! Yes, we're from the Salonika front. First leave for eighteen blank months. Every ten miles the train stops. The engine's running on wood fuel, and so we have to set all hands to work and cut down timber."
"And not a chance of a bath," chimed in another. "The brigands on the engine rush you half a lire for hot water for shaving, so I'm growing a beard. Wish I'd taken the chance to go home by boat. I'd jump at it now—U-boats and other side-shows included."
"Cheer up, Shortie!" exclaimed another. "Bear your burden like a proper foot-slogging subaltern. You're going home. All aboard, you fellows; Old Paulo is going to take us another mile on our long trek to Blighty."
The guard hurried along the platform, gesticulating violently. The tired but indomitable Tommies suffered themselves to be returned to their comfortless carriages, and with a succession of labouring grunts and jolts the leave-train steamed out of the station.
Half an hour later, as Farrar and the A.P. were making for the quay, they became aware of a babel of voices coming from the direction of the harbour. Presently wildly excited men, women, and children began to stream in the direction of the two officers, until the usually sleepy street was packed with a mob of Italians, who bore every sign of being in a state of complete panic.
"What's the commotion, I wonder?" remarked Greenwood. "Austrian aircraft, or has a U-boat barged into the harbour?"
"Something fairly exciting. Let's hurry, old bird."
Hurrying was no easy matter, owing to the press. Several times excited individuals grasped the officers' arms, and by words and signs indicated that they should avoid some unknown danger. It was not until the British officers gained the end of the Strada Marina,and came within view of the harbour, that the nature of the peril became apparent.
The munitions ship "Giuseppe" was ablaze from stem to stern. The flames had secured a firm hold upon the boat and spar decks, but, for some unexplained reason the fire had not yet eaten its way downwards, where thousands of tons of explosives were stored.
With the results of the fearful catastrophe at Halifax fresh in their minds, the inhabitants of Arezzo were flying from the town in the hope of being able to put a safe distance between them and the source of the impending explosion. The Italian senior naval officer had behaved with coolness and promptitude, hoisting a peremptory signal for all shipping to leave the port and steam seawards.
Already the "Timon," the patrol boats, and destroyer, and most of the merchantmen, had obeyed the order, while the Italian submarines were hurrying towards the open sea in order to submerge until the danger was over.
So rapidly had the flames spread that the "Giuseppe's" boats were on fire before they could be lowered. Already several of the falls had been burnt through, and the boats had fallen, still blazing, into the water. Right aft, and frequently obscured from view by the thick clouds of smoke, were about twenty of the crew of the munitions ship, either unable to swim or else too dazed to make the attempt.
Farrar glanced at his chum and pointed to the burning vessel.
"Shall us?" he inquired.
"Let's," replied the A.P. promptly.
Both men realised the nature of the impending danger, but the thought of being able to make an attempt to save life banished all sense of self-preservation. In cold blood they might have thought twice before lingering in the vicinity of a floating cargo of explosives that might be detonated at any moment. It was the British seaman's instinct to "butt in and do a bit" that supplied the stimulus to their formidable task.
Lying along the quay were dozens of boats—long "double-enders," with high prows and stern-posts after the manner of Mediterranean craft. In almost every one were oars, for in their hasty flight the boatmen had given no thought for their property, although now, doubtless, they were bemoaning the anticipated destruction of their means of livelihood.
Selecting a long carvel-built boat the two officers cast off painter and stern-fast, and seizing the oars pulled in the direction of the "Giuseppe." It was a slow business propelling a strange craft, for each of the oars worked on a single thole-pin, which was so placed as to allow the rowers to stand and face the bows and push rather than pull the long oars.
The air was heavy with pungent fumes. Clouds of black smoke eddied incessantly over and around the boat, obscuring the burning ship from the two young officers' view. The heat was terrific, while the crackle and roar of the flames dominated all other sounds.
"Way 'nough!" shouted Farrar, as the towering stern of the "Giuseppe" loomed through the smoke. "Jump for it, men."
Although unable to understand English, the survivors of the crew grasped the significance of the sub's words. Half a dozen leapt, retaining sufficient presence of mind to jump into the water and not directly into the boat. These soon clambered over the sheering gunwales, and in their terror made a frantic dash for the oars to back the little craft away from the burning ship.
"Avast there!" ordered the sub peremptorily; but it was not until he had planted a truculent Italian a blow on the chest that his command was obeyed, the men cringing and whimpering as they huddled on the bottom-boards.
Others of the "Giuseppe's" crew descended by means of ropes, until the little craft was dangerously overcrowded.
"Enough for one trip, Slogger?" inquired the A.P.
Farrar shook his head.
"No time," he decided promptly. "Theothers can keep overboard and hang on to the gunwales. We'll double-bank the oars and push her along."
With difficulty restraining the remaining rescued members of the "Giuseppe's" crew from clambering into the now deeply laden boat, the two British officers re-shipped the oars. Aided by several of the less panicky Italians, they rowed the sluggish craft shorewards, her progress greatly impeded by the drag of the men alongside.
The immediate work of rescue completed, the sub began to awake to the grave possibilities of the position. Considering the immense volume of fire it was little short of miraculous that the "Giuseppe" had not already been blown sky-high. Her crew might reach the shore in safety, but the chances of escaping beyond the danger-zone were very remote.
Even as Farrar watched the burning ship, the while straining desperately at the heavy oars, the enveloping pall of smoke was rent by a vivid flash. An ear-splitting detonation followed, while the hitherto calm water of the harbour was lashed with furious waves.
Panic seized upon the "Giuseppe's" crew with redoubled violence. Throwing caution to the winds they dipped the boat's gunwale. A short, crested wave breaking inboard completed the catastrophe, and the next instant the two British officers found themselves "in theditch" in the midst of a struggling mob of Italian seamen.
Several of the latter could swim, and quickly struck out for the quay, which was now less than fifty yards away. Others grasped the keel of the upturned boat, while the rest clutched their comrades in distress with a vehemence that led to a series of frantic combats in the water.
"Fine old lash-up," soliloquised the sub as he struck out in order to avoid the embraces of a partly water-logged Genoese. "How comes it that we are still alive?"
Somehow it did not seem quite in accordance with the accepted theories that such an immense bulk of explosive had not exterminated every living thing within a couple of miles' radius.
"Hullo, Slogger!" shouted Greenwood, treading water on the outskirts of the crowd of immersed Italians. "Who's for the shore? I for one."
Just then, a boat manned by four men swept round one of the projecting heads of the jetties. Its crew consisted of the British military officers who had gone ashore from the "Timon." Scorning to take to their heels the officers had gone down to the quay to see what had become of the transport, and noticing Farrar and the A.P. putting off to rescue they had at once set to work to follow their example. It was only a lack of skilled boatmanship that prevented them acting in company with their naval confrères; as it was, they were just in time to "put the finishing touches" to the work of rescue.
Safely in the boat the sub directed his attention to the "Giuseppe." She had sunk to the bottom of the harbour, her funnels, stumpy derrick-masts, and a portion of her charred upper-works still showing above the surface.
Two cables' lengths away lay the French submarine, with a kedge anchor laid out on each side of the bows and a long grass warp from her stern to a bollard on the head of one of the jetties.
It was the ready mind of thelieutenant de vaisseauthat had saved the situation. The submarine, with her propellers disabled by the result of an encounter with a U-boat off the Corsican coast, had put into Arezzo for repairs. When the "Giuseppe" took fire the submarine found herself in a helpless position, being unable to accompany the rest of the vessels to sea.
The French officer might have ordered his men to seek safety in flight, but in that case his craft was doomed to destruction. Up against a tight proposition he acted with the resource and good judgment of a worthy son of France. Ordering two anchors to be laid out well in the direction of the burning ship he kedged the submarine out of the basin until her bow tubes could be brought to bear upon the "Giuseppe." By firing a torpedo at the burning ship he ran a chance of precipitating the endshould the force of the explosion be communicated to the dangerous cargo.
It was once more a case of fortune favouring the bold. The torpedo did its work effectively, without detonating the munitions on board the "Giuseppe." In less than ten minutes the inrush of water through the huge rent in the ship's side caused her to founder, and further danger was at an end.
The military officers insisted upon taking Farrar and the A.P. to an hotel to obtain the loan of some clothes while their own could be dried. The place was deserted, like almost every other building in Arezzo, but the British visitors were not to be denied. Great was the astonishment of the "padrone" when, on his return, he found the hotel in the possession of a group of English officers, two of whom were rigged out in garments that he recognised as his own.
"The 'Timon' is returning," announced a major of artillery. "Come along, boys; let's settle up and foot it."
The host, with many expressions of regret at the departure of his guests, bade them farewell.
"Ze Inglis papairs 'ave arrive," he vociferated. "All ze war-news an' big police news. Me sell copy—only one lira."
"Evidently Old Umberto imagines the latter item is an irresistible bait," remarked the A.P.as he unfolded a five days' old copy of a London evening journal. "Anything startling, I wonder?"
"Nothing much," replied Farrar, who was already glancing down the columns. "Usual tosh. One minister makes a flamboyant speech; his colleague utters a jeremiad that would make an outsider imagine that everything was lost. Some very pertinent questions asked in the House on naval matters, by Jove! Hullo, what's this? 'German Prisoners Escape:—On Monday evening four German naval officers succeeded in escaping from Stresdale Camp, and up to the time of going to press they are still at liberty. The names and descriptions of the escaped prisoners are: Otto von Loringhoven, aged 32, speaks English fluently.' What do you think of that?"
"They won't get far," declared Greenwood optimistically. "We'll read in a day or two that they've been collared."
"Let's hope so," added the sub.
AT two o'clock on a bleak morning four men sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree in the deep recesses of Tongby Woods. Rain was descending in torrents, accompanied by a howling gale. The tree-tops bent and groaned, and, although close to the ground the numerous trunks formed a barrier to the furious wind, there was little protection from the downpour, as the saturated state of the men's clothes gave evidence to their respective wearers.
"We are now ten miles from Stresdale Camp," remarked one, speaking in German. "Now we must separate."
"No, no, Otto," protested another. "Let us keep together. Without you we are as good as lost."
Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders, cursing under his breath as the movement resulted in a rivulet of rain-water trickling down his neck.
"And with you I am as good as lost," he mutteredsotto voce. "No, Hans; a bargain isa bargain. Have I not arranged everything for you three? You have civilian clothes, English money, food, maps, and each an address of a good German who will give you shelter and provide for your safety. It stands to reason that four men will arouse suspicion. Singly they have excellent chances."
"That is so," agreed a third. "Only it so happens that we cannot speak English so well as you, Otto. But we must trust to luck. When I broke out of Heavyshaw Camp, eleven months ago, I covered nearly two hundred kilometres before they took me. Then it was my own fault. I ought not to have made for the East Coast."
"You will be quite safe when you arrive at Manchester," declared von Loringhoven. "A large city is a splendid hiding-place. Müller makes for London,hein? Don't get blown to bits by a Gotha, Müller; that would be a cruel fate for a good German flying-officer. Koenig, you are making for Bradford: another excellent town to escape observation. And, Hans, you are for Leeds. These English know we are homing birds, and conclude that we have gone east, but for the present our course lies west."
"And you, Otto?" inquired Müller. "What are your plans?"
"I make for Liverpool," replied von Loringhoven. "A tried and trusted friend of mine lives at Bootle, which is a suburb. I will giveyou the address. After a fortnight you can write to me there, under the name of Smith. The address is easy to remember, so do not commit it to paper. Meanwhile I will make arrangements for the four of us to get across to Ireland. Rest easy; within a month we will be in the Fatherland once more."
"Cannot we keep together till dawn?" inquired the nervous Hans.
"No; we separate," replied von Loringhoven in a tone that brooked no denial. "Now remember, Müller: if you should be spoken to, shake your head and point to your ear. You remember the English sentence I taught you?"
"'Sorry, mate; I'm deaf,'" replied Müller with parrot-like fidelity.
"That is quite passable English," said the kapitan-leutnant approvingly. "It will be an efficient passport. Now, comrades, I will leave you."
Solemnly shaking hands with his stolid and rain-soaked compatriots, von Loringhoven set off on his solitary bid for freedom.
Before he left the shelter of the wood he stopped and drew a small packet from the inside of one of his socks. From it he produced a folded paper, which he carefully placed in the breast-pocket of his jacket, a silver badge—the emblem of an honourably discharged British soldier—and two gold stripes which he deftly sewed to the sleeve of his overcoat.
"It is as well not to take others into your confidence," he soliloquised grimly. "So now for Birmingham, Gloucester, and Bristol."
The mention of Liverpool was a "blind" on his part. Von Loringhoven's consummate trust in himself was sure to go a long way towards his attempt to get clear of the country; but he had little or no faith in his brother-officer prisoners. Unintentionally, perhaps, they would have betrayed his plans had he given them genuine information as to the direction in which he intended to go.
Following a lane, von Loringhoven at length emerged into a broad highway running in a south-westerly direction. He followed it boldly. There was little chance of meeting any one on that inclement night, while the absence of the four Huns was not likely to be discovered until the morning roll-call. He had thus five hours before the prisoners' escape was noticed—and much might be done in that time.
Several villages, all shrouded in utter darkness, he walked through without meeting a single living creature; small towns he skirted, deeming it unwise to be seen by a policeman on his nocturnal beat.
The first blush of dawn found him within sight of an isolated farm close to the side of the road. The house stood at some distance back, but a walled-in yard, with two ranges of out-buildings, suggested possibilities of a few hours' rest. Thestorm was on the point of clearing, although a rosy tint in the eastern sky betokened a recurrence of the rain.
Without alarming any dogs or poultry the fugitive scaled the wall. On his right was a barn, the door being secured merely by a hasp and pin. Inside, the place was almost filled with trusses of hay and piles of oil-cake. Overhead was a loft, which would furnish suitable accommodation for the fatigued man.
Von Loringhoven meant to take no undue risks. He ascended the loft, to find that there was plenty of loose hay. In the gable end overlooking the road was a door bolted on the inside. By slipping back the bolt and leaving the door ajar he could command a fairly comprehensive survey of the road, while if occasion necessitated he could drop down outside the farmhouse without running the danger of having to scale the outside wall. As an additional precaution he drew the ladder up into the loft, thus preventing any one from gaining his place of concealment until another ladder could be procured.
Hardly had von Loringhoven made these preparations when on taking a cautious survey of the road he noticed a cyclist approaching from the direction he himself had come, The man was frequently peering to right and left, while occasionally he would glance behind, as if expecting somebody.
"It is to be hoped that the camp authorities are not on our track already," soliloquised the fugitive, a wave of apprehension sweeping across his mind. It was extremely disconcerting to know that he was being pursued before he was twenty miles from Stresdale Prison Laager.
Through a minute chink between the slightly open door of the loft and the jamb von Loringhoven watched the approaching cyclist with the greatest attention. He became aware that the man's face wore a furtive look, as if he, too, was apprehensive of trouble, In spite of the inclement morning he wore no overcoat, his tweed jacket was buttoned up to his neck, his hands were unprotected by gloves. Across the handlebar of the bicycle was a folded sack secured by two pieces of string, while fastened to a carrier over the driving-wheel was a small basket.
Von Loringhoven scrutinised the man's features intently, in case the cyclist were a fellow-prisoner who had contrived to escape; but he failed to recognise him as a compatriot.
The Hun's fears returned when the cyclist dismounted almost immediately underneath the gable-end of the loft, and propped the machine against the wall.
Giving another glance up and down the road and across the fields on the other side of the highway, the man unfastened the sack from the handle-bars and, keeping close to the wall, passed out of von Loringhoven's sight.
The ober-leutnant abandoned his now useless observation post and tiptoed to a dormer window commanding a view of the farm-yard. Before he had waited thirty seconds, his newly formed surmises were confirmed by the appearance of the man's head and shoulders above the wall.
Satisfying himself that, as far as he knew, he was unobserved the man clambered astride the wall and dropped lightly upon a heap of rubbish that lay conveniently placed in a corner of the yard. Then, moving quickly and silently, he made his way to what was evidently a poultry-house, For a little while he fumbled with the lock, using a skeleton key. His efforts in that direction successful, he passed from the Hun's view.
"Ho! ho!" chuckled von Loringhoven softly. "So that is the Englishman's game? Robbing a farmer's fowl-house. It remains for a good German to turn the tables on the thief."
Retracing his way to the door the fugitive Hun threw it open. The road was quite deserted. Noiselessly, yet unhesitatingly, von Loringhoven dropped to the ground and made his way to the cycle, The next minute he was pedalling rapidly down the incline, thanking his good fortune for the gift of a speedy means of locomotion.
The bicycle was a sound one, for on dismounting von Loringhoven found that the tyres were in excellent condition and the chain almostnew, while the bearings gave no indications of undue "play." Unstrapping the basket from the carrier and finding that it was empty, he hurled the somewhat distinctive appendage over a hedge.
Remounting, von Loringhoven rode hard for nearly two hours, until muscular cramp warned him that he was very much out of practice.
He was now within a mile of a large town. Already there were signs of activity in the manufacturing district. Men with food tied up in red handkerchiefs, or carried in wicket baskets, were trooping to work, but to the Hun's intense satisfaction his presence called for no suspicious comments on the part of the passers-by.
"Not much time to be lost," decided the ober-leutnant. "They are now calling the roll-call at Stresdale, and I am still within fifty miles of that hideous spot."
Taking advantage of a lull in the traffic von Loringhoven deftly loosened the valve of the back tyre, The tyre deflated, he tightened the nut again, and resumed his trudge towards the town.
"Hard luck, mate," was the greeting from a sympathetic Tommy, apparently on leave from the front. "Puncture, eh? Got far to go?"
"Only a matter of five miles," replied the mendacious Hun.
"I'll give you a hand at repairing it," offeredthe soldier. "I used to be in the cycle trade before I was called up."
"No, thanks," replied von Loringhoven. "The tyre's rotten. It will only puncture again before I could ride a few hundred yards. I'll get a train home."
"So you've done your bit, chum," continued the Tommy, pointing to the gold stripe on von Loringhoven's coat. "What's your regiment?"
The German had already noted the letters on the shoulder strap of his questioner. He belonged to a Lincolnshire battalion.
"The North Devons, Second Battalion," replied von Loringhoven promptly, trusting that the information would satisfy the man.
"Blimy, that so?" persisted the Tommy. "Then your crush relieved us at Armentières. D'ye happen to know—— Hullo, mate, what's up now?"
"Touch of the old trouble," replied von Loringhoven, imitating an asthmatic wheeze to perfection. "Sooner I get home the better. S'long, chum."
Arriving at the railway station the ober-leutnant found that he had twenty minutes to wait. When the booking-office opened he took a ticket for himself and one for the machine to Birmingham, the supposedly punctured wheel supplying a plausible explanation that an active man with the wind behind him should elect togo by train rather than by road. His thoroughness in purchasing an address label to affix to the machine showed that he was quite up to the requirements of the Railway Company.
He had gone into the question of the retention of the cycle, and had decided that it was quite safe to do so. The poultry thief would not dare to report his loss. On the other hand, he would be too panic-stricken to take any steps to recover it. Here again luck was with the crafty Hun, for, save in circumstances like the present, a bicycle could not be stolen without the fact being telegraphed far and wide within an hour of the discovery of the loss.
It was nearly noon when the fugitive alighted at Birmingham. In that vast city he was comparatively free from danger, especially as he had so carefully covered his tracks. Ordering a meal at a restaurant von Loringhoven ate at his ease, scanning the columns of a midday paper to ascertainwhether there was any newsof the escape from Stresdale. There was none; apparently the authorities had not thought fit to take the Press into their confidence.
Leaving his cycle in a lock-up, the ober-leutnant spent the afternoon in wandering about the streets until four o'clock. He had no intention of going farther that night; Birmingham as a refuge suited him admirably.
While having tea he bought an early eveningedition of a paper. In it he found a small paragraph briefly reporting that four German naval officers had broken out of Stresdale Camp, but neither names nor descriptions were given.
The meal over, von Loringhoven claimed his cycle and walked to the south-western suburbs, engaging a bed at a modest hotel in Selly Oak. If questioned he had decided to tell a plausible tale that he was on his way to take up a job on a farm near Hereford, but to his satisfaction he was merely asked to perform the perfunctory task of filling in a registration form, the particulars on which were received without comment.
The fugitive spent the evening in the commercial room in the company of three "knights of the road." He was too dead beat to go out, while he could not retire to bed so early without the risk of causing undue attention.
Presently the boots brought in a late special, which one of the commercials promptly appropriated.
"I see they've collared three of those Huns who broke out of Stresdale," he remarked suddenly.
Von Loringhoven pricked up his ears, but maintained silence.
"That's good news," rejoined another commercial. "Any details?"
"Only a few," was the answer. "An interview with a special constable who arrested oneof them reads rather funny. He challenged a suspicious-looking character, who replied, 'Morry, sate, I deaf am,' which gave the special sufficient justification for arresting the man."
"Just the foolish thing Müller would do," mused von Loringhoven. "And after all the pains I took to knock the simple phrase into his thick Bavarian skull. I should not wonder if he's tried his level best to give me away—unthinkingly, of course."
"And the fourth?" inquired one of the company.
"A U-boat pirate, Otto von Loringhoven by name," announced the possessor of the newspaper. "He speaks English fluently. Here's his description."
"It might apply to any of us," remarked another. "Fancy you, Wilson, being run in just as you were fixing up an order with the Parabola Company."
The eyes of the speaker roamed from one to another until they were fixed upon the uncomfortable Hun. The others followed the gaze of their brother-commercial. The ober-leutnant found the mental strain intolerable. He felt compelled to break the silence.
"And would you be astonished to learn, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "that you are in the presence of Otto von Loringhoven?"