"However," remarked Cumberleigh briskly, "theColumbinebusiness hasn't anything to do with friend Fennelburt. We get no forrarder."
"I don't know so much about that," demurred Morpeth. "I'll use it as a lever to prize a secret out of this von Preugfeld. We'll have him up here and give him the shock of his life."
The R.N.R. officer touched a bell.
"Take a couple of hands and bring the U-boat skipper here," he ordered.
"Say, Skipper," remarked Cumberleigh, who had been skimming the pages of the log-book, "here's a rummy entry:—'2 A.M. Landed von Preussen.' Who's von Preussen, and where else could he have been landed except on the Scottish coast? One minute."
He turned over more leaves rapidly, nevertheless scanning the sloping, flourish-embellished words.
"No mention of this von Preussen having been taken on board again," he continued. "First this fellow and this Fennelburt are landed—that is, if the German bluejacket's yarn is correct. Will you allow me to commence the examination, Skipper?"
"Tough Geordie's" weather-lined face wrinkled with a smile.
"By all means," he replied. "I'm not much of a hand at talky-talky. The best argument I used in the Foul Anchor Line was a big boot. Dagoes and Dutchies understood that. Stand by; they're bringing the swine in."
Kapitan von Preugfeld entered jauntily. He had imagined, judging from the result of the previous interview, that he had completely bluffed his captors on the subject of Captain Fennelburt, and that, if he persisted in his story, he would emerge triumphant from the ordeal.
Cumberleigh came to the point at once. "I'm anxious to know," he remarked, "what connection there is between Leutnant Karl von Preussen of the Prussian Guards and Captain George Fennelburt of the British Air Force. You can enlighten me, Herr Kapitan, and I await your explanation."
Attacked from a totally unexpected quarter, von Preugfeld's defences were literally rushed.
"I know not," he replied sullenly.
"Try again," persisted Cumberleigh.
"Der Teufel!vot you mean?" asked the U-boat commander.
"Mean? This," replied Cumberleigh, holding up U 247's log-book. "Here is one entry:—'2 A.M. Landed von Preussen.' That is in your handwriting."
Von Preugfeld was forced to admit the truth of the impeachment.
"It was practically the last entry you made," continued Cumberleigh, "but there are more, apparently written by your subordinate officer. I'll read some:—'5 P.M. Broke surface. Found large barge, X 5, derelict. Took off her as prisoners three English officers'—not four, you'll note. There certainly were four in R.A.F. uniforms. Now again:—'4.10 A.M. Set von Preussen ashore.' It's perfectly obvious that if von Preussen were set ashore twice he must have come on board during that interval. There is no mention of your vessel communicating with the shore between the two times you mentioned. So I put it to you that von Preussen and Fennelburt are one and the same person."
The Hun's face grew pale. Beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead.
"A curse on von Loringhoven!" he muttered in German. "His lack of caution has spoiled everything." Then in broken English he added: "I call you to make testimony. It vos not I dat betray von Preussen. It vos mein unter-leutnant, von Loringhoven."
"That's all we wanted to know," rejoined Captain Cumberleigh quietly. "I might add, however, that it is hardly playing the game to put the blame upon your subordinate. Perhaps it is a way Prussian officers have, so it would not be surprising to hear that, later on, you will blame him for torpedoing the hospital shipColumbineand the unarmed linerCamperdown Castle. Think it over."
He turned to Lieutenant-Commander Morpeth.
"Any further questions you want to ask, sir?" he inquired, with strict formality.
"No," replied Morpeth. "Take him away."
The sliding door closed on the prisoner. "Tough Geordie" turned to the successful amateur barrister.
"By Jove, Cumberleigh," he exclaimed, "you bowled him out this time! But I thought you said that the log-book wasn't up to date."
"Neither was it," admitted Cumberleigh, passing his cigarette-case. "I took the liberty of imagining that it was and ascribing the authorship to that little worm of a von Loringhoven."
The R.A.F. captain was flushed with pleasure at his triumph. He had vindicated himself concerning his doubts of "Fennelburt's" genuineness. Until he had done so he was considerably uneasy in his mind, for he hated a suspicious nature.
"I suppose you can wireless the information to Auldhaig?" he continued. "Goodness only knows what that spy might be up to before he's laid by the heels!"
Morpeth shook his head.
"Sorry," he replied. "It can't be did. We mustn't get ourselves into the cart over our forthcoming stunt for the sake of putting a stopper on a spy. You see, we don't know who might tap the wireless. Fritz might, and that would make him horribly suspicious."
"Is there no other way to communicate with Auldhaig?" asked Cumberleigh.
"Possibly," admitted the R.N.R. officer. "We might send a code message by the first vessel we fall in with. I don't as a rule want to speak a vessel, unless she's a Fritz, and then I do more than speak. But I can't carry on with this crowd of Huns on board. Must get rid of them somehow, and the best plan will be to tranship them. Then'll be your chance to pass the word about your pal 'Fennelburt.'"
The conference then dissolved, Morpeth and the R.A.F. fellows turning in for a much needed sleep, while Wakefield and Meredith went on deck.
About half an hour later the look-out reported smoke away to the north-east. In ordinary circumstances Q 171 would have held on, purposely avoiding the stranger. But now she altered helm, steering a course to intercept the ship.
It was fairly reasonable to suppose that the as yet invisible vessel was not a Hun. German surface craft were rare birds in these waters. When they did come out they appeared in force, accompanied by a Zeppelin or two to give them plenty of warning should a British patrolling squadron appear. She might be a disguised German raider, but these generally chose to sneak along the Norwegian coast and gain mid-Atlantic by a circuitous route.
Before long the oncoming vessel appeared above the horizon, and presently by the aid of binoculars it was seen that she was a large Norwegian tramp.
"That's good!" exclaimed Morpeth, who had been roused from his slumbers by the announcement of the tramp's approach. "Decent fellows these Norwegian skippers! 'Fraid I can't say the same for the Swedes. Pro-Huns, waiting to see which way the cat jumps, every time. Up with the German ensign, bos'n's mate, and hoist the International 'ID.' Sorry to have to put the wind up 'em, but it can't be helped."
"Hanged if I ever thought I'd be under the Black Cross Ensign!" remarked Blenkinson, as the emblem of modern piracy was sent aloft. "And what's the meaning of those flags?" he inquired, indicating a square of yellow bunting with a circular black patch in the centre surmounting a blue pennant with a white ball.
"Just a polite intimation to stop and pass the time of day," volunteered Meredith. "Kind of invitation to have a drink. Technically it's a signal meaning 'Heave-to or I'll sink you.'"
Approaching at an aggregate speed of twenty-seven knots, the tramp and the Q-boat were soon at close quarters. True to her rôle of U-boat, the latter was cleared for action, the R.A.F. officers like the rest of the crew disguised in black oilskins in order to heighten the deception.
The Norwegian tramp reversed engines. She flew her national ensign and had the distinctive colours painted on her sides, together with the word "Norge" in huge letters. But that was no guarantee that she was a genuine Norwegian vessel. She might be a Hun raider in disguise, with a heavy armament concealed behind hinged bulwarks.
Once more the collapsible boat was lowered, and Ainslie and Cumberleigh, whose knowledge of German enabled them the better to impersonate Hun officers, were rowed off to the tramp.
"Dash it all!" whispered the R.A.F. captain to his companion, as he eyed askance the dangling Jacob's ladder hanging over the side of the rolling vessel. "Do I swarm up that? I'll give the show away right off."
All the same he made a creditable performance, following Ainslie to the deck of theOle, for such was her name.
A glance reassured the sub-lieutenant that the tramp was not a disguised raider. He made a prearranged signal to the Q-boat to relieve Morpeth of further anxiety on the subject, and then proceeded to interview the Norwegian skipper, who also spoke German.
The latter fully expected his command to be sunk, as her papers showed her to be bound for Leith with a cargo of foodstuffs. Nor did he look surprised, although he expressed indignation, when Ainslie ordered him into the boat.
"And my crew?" he asked. "Surely you will give them time to provision and man the boats?"
"That will be decided later," replied the Sub. "Be quick. We are waiting."
The Norwegian crew, taking it for granted that their skipper was to be made a prisoner, showed a decidedly threatening attitude. Ainslie and Cumberleigh were inwardly perturbed. Without "giving the show away," it was difficult to see how they were to get out of the trouble, until the Norwegian captain, anxious to save his men from further ill-usage at the hands of the German pirates, ordered them to adopt a passive attitude.
Morpeth met the skipper of theOleas he came over the side of Q 171 and escorted him below.
"Can you speak English?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes," was the reply of the astonished Norwegian. "For fifteen years I have run between British and Norwegian ports. A man has then an excellent chance to learn the English language."
"Then you will not be sorry to hear that this is a British vessel," continued Morpeth, producing a bottle of whisky. "Say when. That's good!"
The Norwegian hesitated to accept the proffered glass.
"Why, then, am I arrested?" he asked.
"Not arrested," corrected Morpeth—"merely invited on board. I want to ask a favour. Will you give a passage to three British officers and twenty-six Germans?"
"Explain, please," said the master of theOle.
"Tough Geordie" did so.
"I have no objection to offering hospitality to the British officers," decided the Norwegian; "but there are difficulties as far as the German sailors are concerned."
"Their passage will be paid for."
"I was not troubling about that question," continued the Norwegian. "You see, I am a neutral. These men will be free while under the Norwegian flag."
"They won't be when you set them ashore, Skipper," rejoined the R.N.R. man meaningly. "As for International Law and the rights of neutrals, all I can say is that if Germany had respected them the war would have been over long ago, and I wouldn't be holding you up to-day."
"That is quite true," admitted the master of theOle. "We Norwegians have no love for the Germans, and our mercantile navy has suffered more at their hands than the rest of the neutral nations combined. But I have another objection. These Germans would outnumber my crew. Supposing they take possession forcibly of my ship and make for a German port?"
"They won't do that," said Morpeth emphatically. "Knowing their skipper is alive, they wouldn't go back to Germany and put their heads through a running noose."
"That is so," remarked the Norwegian. "I will take them."
The two men, brothers of the sea, shook hands. The Norwegian returned to his vessel in Q 171's dinghy and gave orders for theOle'sboat to be lowered.
"Now, gentlemen," said Morpeth briskly, addressing the three R.A.F. officers, "the best of pals must part. Circumstances demand that I send you back in yonder vessel. I've got my job, and no doubt one is waiting for you at Auldhaig. I wouldn't shine as an airman, and I don't think you're cut out for Q-boat work. See my meaning?"
"Quite," agreed Cumberleigh gravely.
"Of course we're sorry to have to part company, but your remarks fit the case absolutely. And I'm rather keen to follow this Fennelburt business."
"I've had a code message written out," continued Morpeth. "You can take charge of that. I'm afraid you'll have von Loringhoven and those mutineering Huns as travelling companions. Von Preugfeld I'm keeping on board for the benefit of his health. The risks he'll run here will be slight compared with those he'd have on board theOle. Some of his former crew would doubtless cut his throat in order to clinch matters. Here's the boat coming alongside. Good-bye and good luck!"
Bidding Wakefield, Morpeth and Ainslie farewell, the three members of the dissolved R.A.F. Salvage Syndicate went over the side and were transhipped to the Norwegian vessel. The Hun seamen followed in another boat, but von Loringhoven refused to go with them. He, too, felt that he was in danger at the hands of the mutineers, and Morpeth, knowing the facts and having no cause to wish the unter-leutnant harm from a personal point of view, allowed him to remain.
Twenty minutes later theOlewas hull down.
Morpeth, who had been busy with a sextant, laid the instrument down and began to work out his position. Presently he turned to Wakefield.
"Here we are," he said, sticking a point of the divider into the chart. "Lat. 55 deg. 50' 10" N. Long. 6 deg. 15' 10" E. We fired our passengers just in time. Another four hours and with luck we'll pick up the Hoorn Reefs Lightship. Then the fun'll commence."
"All our passengers?" queried Wakefield smiling.
"Yes," replied "Tough Geordie." "You, my lad, are a worker. I'll see that you do your bit. We'll bag some pheasants although it's close season."
"Let's hope so," said Wakefield cheerfully.
"An' I'm a rotten sportsman," added Morpeth. "'Owing to the war,' I suppose. 'Tany rate if I've the chance I'm going to bag 'em while they're sitting up. After all, Fritz-strafing's my job, and the more the merrier."
Philip Entwistlepuffed thoughtfully at his briar.
"That was the fellow right enough," he soliloquised. "Had I been informed directly the Air people made the discovery, I'd have nabbed him before this."
It was a few days after Karl von Preussen's hasty and almost panic-stricken exodus from Edinburgh. Entwistle, Secret Service agent, with a highly respectable record, had been called in by the authorities to trace the elusive spy. As usual, he was not consulted until after the police had declared themselves baffled. No doubt it was a tribute to Entwistle's sagacity, but he looked upon it in a totally different light. To him it meant precious hours and minutes wasted.
He remembered the wanted man. Entwistle was one of those comparatively rare individuals who hardly ever forget a face. Disguised as a country parson, he was returning from a case at Aberdeen—he had convinced the naval authorities the whole thing was a mare's nest and that a supposed spy was a harmless professor of a Scottish University—when, having to change at Nedderburn Junction, he found himself in the same compartment with the man whom the Admiralty, War Office, and Air Ministry wanted most particularly.
And when von Preussen showed his railway warrant to the ticket inspector, Entwistle, taking cover behind theChurch Times, had memorised the particulars written on the buff form. It was not idle curiosity. It was to him a mental exercise. During the brief instant in which the inspector was holding the warrant to the light of the carriage lamp Entwistle had committed the following facts to memory: the number and date of the warrant, the holder's name and rank, his points of departure and his destination—details that were jotted down at the first opportunity in the Secret Service agent's pocket-book.
Entwistle was sitting in his study at his house in Barborough. The windows were wide open. It was a bright, sunny morning, and from where he sat he could see the rugged outlines of the distant hills and the tall chimneys of the factories in the valleys.
As he sat scanning the newly-arrived dossier of his latest case, Entwistle's thoughts went back to other scenes. The hills above Blackberry Cross and towards Tarleigh reminded him of the von Eitelwurmer case.
"Wonder if this Fennelburt fellow (of course, that's an assumed name) has anything to do with the late Herr Eitelwurmer?" he mused. "May as well go through those papers again, and perhaps it would be advisable to look up the von Gobendorff case."
He unlocked a drawer and pulled out two bulky packets of documents, neatly tied with string. Entwistle had a distaste for red tape, both metaphorically and literally. For the best part of an hour he busied himself with the various and for the most part faulty clues, endeavouring from the tangled skein to weave a thread of conclusive facts.
The offer of the one hundred pounds reward had had its disadvantages. Amateur detectives and others attracted by the offer had seen "Captain Fennelburt" in a dozen or more different places at approximately the same time. Copies of letters from these individuals had been included in the dossier sent to Entwistle from Scotland Yard. One was from a farmer at Penzance, who was certain that he saw the wanted man making for Poldene Air Station. Another emanated from a fisherman at Wick, who stated that an R.A.F. officer answering to the description of Captain Fennelburt stopped him and inquired the way to Loch Thrumster Flying School. Yet another correspondent, hailing from Ramsgate, reported that the spy was boarding at a small house near Pegwell Bay.
"Even in these days of high speed in aviation," thought Entwistle, "there are limits. We have yet to find conclusive evidence of a man starting from Wick, say, at 9 A.M. and finishing at Penzance at 11 A.M.—650 miles in two hours. And when he stops on the way to partake of refreshments at Ramsgate—involving a detour of another couple of hundred miles—the imagination is stretched beyond breaking-point. I'm afraid these worthy people are following the red-herring trail. The R.A.F. uniform has put them on a false scent. Now, if I were in Captain Fennelburt's position—without, presumably, a change of clothes—in a fairly distinctive uniform, what would I do?"
His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a maid with a telegram.
"No answer," said Entwistle briefly.
The wire was from the stationmaster at Carlisle. No R.A.F. railway warrant bearing the number E99109 had been given up at Carlisle.
"That is quite what I expected," thought the Secret Service agent. "The warrant was a forged one, and Carlisle was a bit of bluff. He's probably lying low in Edinburgh. Suppose it's not much use trying to pick up the trail there now? Yet—H'm! I'll risk it."
He took an up-to-date time-table from a shelf. Experience had taught him to be particularly careful as far as the times of departure of trains were concerned.
"H'm this will do. Arrive Waverley Station at so-and-so. Yes, that will do."
In ten minutes Entwistle had made all necessary preparations, and with a small hand-bag as his total luggage was walking briskly to the station.
It was not until the train stopped at Carlisle that he was fortunate enough to take a corner seat. Already he had scannedThe TimesandThe Scotsmanthose hubs of the newspaper worlds north and south of the Tweed. The rest of the occupants of the compartment still retained that insular reserve that has been partly broken down since the memorable August 1914, so Entwistle amused himself by admiring the scenery as the train ascended picturesque Liddisdale. Many a time had Entwistle travelled north by this route, but the beauties of the Lowlands as viewed from the North British Railway never palled.
As the train approached Galashiels it slowed down rapidly, coming to a standstill just outside the station. It was an unusual occurrence, for the express was supposed to make a non-stop run from Carlisle to Edinburgh. Carriage windows were opened and passengers thrust their heads out to ascertain the cause of the delay.
"A truck with a lot of luggage has fallen off the platform on to the line," remarked one of the passengers. "They've removed it now."
The train began to move. Before it gathered much speed it was running through the station. Suddenly Entwistle was all attention, for standing on the opposite platform was "his man"—thesoi-disantCaptain Fennelburt.
Entwistle recognised him at once, in spite of the fact that he wore civilian clothes. He was evidently waiting for a train bound south.
For a brief instant the Secret Service man deliberated on the chance of being able to leap from the train. He would have cheerfully run the risk of violating the Company's rules and regulations, but there are limits to personal activity. He would not have hesitated to jump, for he possessed more than a moderate amount of courage; but prudence predominated. It would be of little use to find himself stranded at Galashiels with a broken limb, he argued; but there was the communication-cord.
Even as he pulled the chain that gave the alarm in the guard's van, greatly to the surprise of his fellow passengers, another train thundered past. There was not a moment to lose.
"What's wrong, sir?" inquired eight or nine curious voices. "Are you ill?"
Without replying, Entwistle grasped his bag and stick, went into the corridor, and began to make his way towards the guard's van. The train showed no signs of slowing down. Already it must have run a couple of miles beyond Galashiels.
Presently the vacuum brakes were put in action, and with a peculiar sensation, akin to the rapid stopping of a lift, the train drew up.
"Guard!" exclaimed Entwistle peremptorily, as the uniformed official attempted to hurry past him in the narrow corridor. "I pulled the communication-cord."
"What for, sir?"
Entwistle produced a card from his pocket and explained matters. By this time another two precious minutes had passed.
"Very good, sir," said the guard, retaining the piece of cardboard. "If you'll alight, we'll get on. It's a tidyish step back to Galashiels, d'ye ken?"
The Secret Service man clambered down the footboard on to the permanent way, his progress watched with unabated interest by scores of passengers. Then, taking to his heels, he ran with the ease of a trained athlete towards the station.
He was too late. Already the train—a slow local—had taken up its quota of passengers and was out of sight. Entwistle promptly tackled the ticket collector.
"A tallish chap in a grey overcoat and a bowler, sir?" inquired the man. "Yes; I remember him. He's got a ticket for Hawick. ...No, sir, third, single."
"Is there a motor available?" asked Entwistle, loth to go to the extremity of telegraphing or telephoning to the Hawick police.
One was—a powerful six-cylinder. The driver, rising to the exhortation to "drive like blue blazes," pressed heavily upon the accelerator, and the car leapt along the road.
There was every chance of reaching Hawick before the train, punctures and other road mishaps excepted. The route through Selkirk was practically a direct one, while the iron road made a considerable detour through Melrose. Consequently, nothing happening to delay the car, Entwistle found himself, cool but elated, waiting outside the entrance to Hawick Station a good six minutes before the advertised time of the train's arrival.
Keenly alive to the necessity for prompt action, the Secret Service man took up a position immediately behind the open door.
The train drew up. There seemed no hurry on the part of the arriving passengers to leave the platform. A boy wearing a tam-o'-shanter and a plaid was the first to appear, then an old woman bearing a large wicker basket. A couple of huge, red-faced farmers next jostled through the doorway, discussing in loud tones the latest ruling market prices of oats and oil-cake. After them a pale, thin-featured woman with a baby, and last of all a nervous young man who walked with hesitating steps as he fumbled for a mislaid ticket.
"Confound it!" muttered Entwistle savagely.
Leaving his place of concealment, he made for the platform. Luggage was still being put out of the van. There might be time to look into all the carriages. He would have to take the risk of "Captain Fennelburt" recognising him as the cleric who travelled with him from Nedderburn to Edinburgh.
But Entwistle was again disappointed. The train, a non-corridor one, carried no passengers at all resembling the wanted man. "Captain Fennelburt" had adroitly covered his tracks.
The baffled Secret Service man hied him to the telephone—the Railway Company's private wire—and rang up Galashiels.
A brief but emphatic conversation both with the ticket collector and the booking clerk elicited the information that the bowler-hatted man might have alighted at one of the four intermediate stations.
"You'll be for trying St. Boswell's Junction, mon?" came a suggestion on the telephone.
Entwistle tried St. Boswell's Junction, with the result that a man answering his description had left the train, and had booked for York, via Alnwick and Alnmouth.
The clue was developing into a man-hunt after Entwistle's own heart. It afforded him scant satisfaction to attain his object with little trouble. The greater the obstacles, the keener became his interest.
"'Fraid I don't want you again," he remarked to the waiting chauffeur, as he paid him.
Inquiries resulted in the information that there was a fast train through to Carlisle, whence it was possible to arrive at York within twenty minutes of the East Coast express. Entwistle, having had time to make a satisfying meal, was retracing his course.
Luck was against him. It was not until about eight on the following morning that he alighted on York platform. His first step was to make inquiries at the Postal Censor's Office. On presentation of his card, he was allowed to scan the duplicates of telegraphic messages sent during the preceding twelve or fifteen hours. There was nothing to excite suspicion. The foreign cables proved more fruitful, especially one from "Messrs. Grabnut & Plywrench to Mynheer Jakob van Doornzylt, woollen merchant, of Amsterdam."
The message was in plain English (according to war time regulations), and referred to a consignment of merchandise about to be dispatched from Leith to Ymuiden. On the duplicate was an official stamp "Passed by Censor."
"Has this been dispatched?" asked Entwistle.
"Yes," replied the postal official. "It was held back for three hours according to procedure when dealing with foreign cablegrams, and was sent off at 7.50 P.M. yesterday."
Entwistle, having provided himself with a copy, went to a desk in a secluded corner of the large room.
"Close bales 251 in number—" began the message.
Consulting his code-book (the identical one that he had taken from the spy von Eitelwurmer), Entwistle began his translation. "Close" signified "disguised," "bale" was the counterpart of "Q-boat," and so on. In ten minutes the secret message stood revealed as follows:—
"Q-boat disguised as U 251 left Leith on 9th for Hoorn Reefs.—VON PREUSSEN."
That was all—but sufficient to lure "Tough Geordie" Morpeth and his gallant comrades into a veritable death-trap.
TheAdmiral's secretary at Auldhaig stood at the Commander-in-Chief's elbow. It was close on lunch-time, and the Admiral had still a bulky though fast diminishing pile of documents either to sign or initial before he could complete his morning's work. But, being mortal, even the Commander-in-Chief was hungry, and consequently short-tempered.
"What is it, Elphinhaye?" he demanded tartly. "Can't you deal with it yourself?"
"'Fraid not, sir," replied the secretary, still proffering the newly-arrived telegram.
"What is it?" asked the Admiral again. "Who's it from?"
"Entwistle? Never heard of him."
The secretary coughed deprecatingly. He was slightly surprised and pained to think that his worthy chief had not heard of the famous Secret Service agent.
"Oh, yes; now I do," corrected the Commander-in-Chief. "He was barging about down in Cornwall over that von Gobendorff case, when I was Senior Officer at Trecurnow. Well, what is it now?... By Jove!"
The telegram had been dispatched from York. It read as follows:—
"To S.N.O., Auldhaig. For your information and necessary action:—Discover Captain Fennelburt, R.A.F., to be Leutnant Karl von Preussen (videdossier 445). He has dispatched the following cablegram to Admiralty, Berlin: 'Q-boat disguised as U 251 left Leith on 9th for Hoorn Reefs."
"Someone's let the cat out of the bag," declared the Commander-in-Chief. "It's an absolute mystery to me how intelligence does leak out. Now, what's to be done, Elphinhaye? What Q-boat does the message refer to?"
"Q 171, sir," replied the secretary, never at a loss to supply the requisite information. "She was the oldTollerdale, and was adapted at Leith in January last."
"Who's her commanding officer?"
Elphinhaye had to consult a current Navy List.
"Morpeth, sir. George Morpeth, an R.N.R. officer with the D.S.C."
"By Gad! Morpeth! I knew him at Trecurnow," exclaimed the Admiral. "Smart fellow, but a bit of a rough diamond. I've no doubt that he can take care of himself, but all the same——"
"We could wireless him, sir."
"And warn every Fritz on this side of Germany," declared the Commander-in-Chief. "No, no, Elphinhaye. We must think of a better plan—one that, with luck, will entail a clean sweep of every Fritz who dares to poke his nose outside his kennel."
Twenty minutes later the joyful signal was received by the Nth Light Cruiser Squadron and the Z Destroyer Flotilla:—
"Raise steam for thirty knots and prepare for immediate action on clearing harbour."
"Haveyou any means of tracing the person who brought this message? inquired Entwistle.
"Hardly," replied the Postal Censor's assistant. "One receives so many cables and telegrams for dispatch in the course of the day. I'll find out the name of the clerk on duty at the time, although I'm afraid the information will be disappointing." By means of a voice-tube, the official made various inquiries.
"O'Donovon, is it?... Is he on duty now?... Just reported, eh? Good. Ask him to step up to my room, please."
Presently a brisk tap on the door was followed by the appearance of a slight, rather pale-faced young man of pronounced Hibernian features.
"This," said the Censor's assistant, "is 'Mr. O'Donovon. Mr. O'Donovon, this gentleman, Mr. Entwistle, wishes to ask you some information respecting a certain cablegram. Will you answer as fully as you can on the matter?"
"I want you, Mr. O'Donovon," began Entwistle, "to give me a description of the person who handed in the message."
It was Entwistle's way. Instead of asking if the clerk perchance remembered the individual, he assumed that he already did so.
"Sure," replied Mr O'Donovon, after reading the duplicate message. "It was a boy of twelve or about. Black hair and eyes and a Jewish nose. He had a mole on his chin. I remember he gave me two pound notes and I gave him half a crown change."
"I suppose by no possibility could you show me the notes? inquired Entwistle.
"No, sir," replied Mr. O'Donovon. "That I can't. We put all notes into a drawer. I call to mind that they were rather dirty, although it's dirtier ones I've seen in Dublin."
"I thought not," remarked Entwistle. "Perhaps it's as well, for in all probability you gave the lad half a crown for sending the cablegram. If you've time you might examine the notes in that drawer. Ten to one, you'll find two were printed in Germany. Now, will you please send me a priority telegram—on H.M.S.—to Leith, Auldhaig, and Wick; the latter to be transmitted by wireless to Commander-in-Chief, Grand Fleet, Scapa Flow."
Having done all that he could possibly do to scotch von Preussen's activities on the Continental cables, Entwistle prepared to follow up the clues that would, he hoped, lead to the running to earth of the cunning and resourceful spy.
His next step was to trace the boy with the Jewish features and the mole on his chin. It was rather a tall undertaking, for, in spite of the fact that there was a hideous massacre of Jews in York in the remote days when Richard Coeur de Lion reigned, there seemed to be a distinct predilection on the part of people of Hebraic origin to live in the city that holds the position of capital of the Shire of Broad Acres. Besides, many people have moles on their faces, and O'Donovon might have been slightly wide of the mark in describing the mole as being on the lad's chin. It might have been his cheek—either his left or his right.
It was in Petergate, one of those narrow, old-world thoroughfares leading to the Cathedral precincts that Entwistle came face to face with the immediate object of his investigations. Sauntering towards him was a young Jewish lad with a mole on the point of his chin.
Entwistle gave him no opening.
"I say, my lad," he exclaimed, holding out a bright half-crown to the astonished youth, "I gave you the wrong change when you handed in that telegram from Grabnut & Plywrench. Here you are."
The boy took the proffered coin eagerly. As Entwistle expected, he devoted more attention to the coin than he did to the donor.
"He won't recognise me again," mused the Secret Service man as he hurried away, leaving the boy testing the bright half-crown in case he had been "had."
Swallowed up in the crowd, for Petergate was thronged, Entwistle dived into a tobacconist's shop and made a small purchase, the while keeping a sharp look-out upon the passers-by.
Presently the lad, whistling blithely, hurried along. At a discreet distance Entwistle followed, noting with satisfaction that the boy lingered outside a cinema palace.
"He would have spent that half-dollar had the place been open," he theorised. "As it is, he'll go home to his dinner and he won't say a word about the wrong change."
Keeping within sight of his chase, Entwistle followed until the boy turned down a narrow street close to Bootham Bar—one of the still-existent gateways of mediaeval York. On the other hand the roadway was bounded by the masonry of the city wall.
Entwistle followed no further. He promptly ascended the steps of Bootham Bar and gained the paved walk that runs along the top of the walls. From his coign of vantage he watched, and saw the lad enter a house—stopping, however, to glance up and down the cobbled street.
"Good enough for the present," soliloquised Entwistle. "I feel fairly satisfied with my morning's work. Until to-night there's nothing doing, so I will have a little relaxation from duty. Philip, my festive, you can be reckless: you can have a whole coupon's worth of roast beef at the best restaurant in York."
Having done ample justice to the inner man, Entwistle decided to put in an hour or two at the railway station. Railway stations had a peculiar fascination for him. Incidentally he had obtained a good many clues while waiting on a platform, although he was bound to admit that the almost general use of motor cars had robbed the railway of a questionable record of affording quick transit to fugitive criminals.
As he entered the booking hall he ran against a familiar figure wearing an unfamiliar garb—a thick-set, clean-shaven man of about forty-seven or eight, in height about five feet ten. He was in R.A.F. officer's uniform. Just beneath his cap his iron-grey closely-cropped hair contrasted forcibly with his brown, almost reddish complexion.
"B a r c r o f t !" exclaimed Entwistle. "What on earth are you doing here? And in uniform, too. By Jove! I'm pleased to see you."
"I'm here for fifteen and a half minutes more," replied Peter Barcroft, consulting his wristlet watch. "That is, if the North Eastern Company run their train punctually. That's question one answered. I'm in uniform because I wanted to be, and didn't mean to be out of the fun. What are you doing, might I ask?"
"Same old thing—'the trivial round, the common task' sort of business, you know," answered the Secret Service man.
"But you've not explained: how comes it that you are in khaki?"
"I suppose," replied Barcroft, "it's a case of 'following in father's footsteps' reversed. I'm a mere 'second loot'; my son Billy is now a major, so if I meet him in public I must salute him. This war's been responsible for a lot of funny incidents and conditions, hasn't it?"
"It has," agreed Entwistle. "We've been mixed up in a few together, haven't we? But to get back to the point. I'm curious to know how you managed to get a commission. You told me you were blind in one eye and deaf in one ear. How did you pass the doctor?"
"I passed, or was passed by, three," replied Barcroft proudly. "Bluffed them absolutely. Merely a triumph of mind over matter. I learnt the letters on the sight-testing card off by heart. Perfectly simple, eh, what? I'm in the Marine Section, R.A.F., and incidentally I'm the senior officer in the depot in point of age. I'm on my way to Auldhaig to take some boats round to Sableridge—that's on the South Coast."
"Not X-lighters, by any chance?"
Barcroft stared.
"Yes," he admitted. "What do you know about them?"
Entwistle laughed.
"Bet you twopence you won't find them at Auldhaig," he said. "More than that, you'll stand a chance of being arrested. There's been a fellow on the same sort of game, and that's why I'm here—to nab him on sight. By the by, how are Ponto and Nan?"
"Going strong," replied Barcroft. "At the present moment they are assisting my crowd of merry wreckers to digest railway buffet sandwiches and bully beef. We'll go and find them."
The two old chums walked down the platform. Just beyond the covered part was a large truck piled high with a miscellaneous assortment of kit-bags, blankets, sea-boots, oilskins, charts, and a pair of hand semaphore flags. Mounting guard over the luggage were Barcroft's two shaggy sheep-dogs.
"They remember me," remarked Entwistle, as the animals began to wag their stumpy tails.
"Of course," replied the R.A.F. officer. "But you wouldn't dare to lay a finger on that pile of kit."
"I won't experiment," replied Entwistle. "Your dogs' teeth are just a trifle too formidable. When do you think you'll get back to Sableridge? I'm going down south in a fortnight or so, and I may run across you."
"Look me up, then," replied Barcroft. "With decent luck I ought to get my five-knot convoy round in a fortnight, mines and contradictory Air Ministry orders permitting. And if I knock up against Captain Fennelburt I'll give him your chin-chin."
"You won't," said Entwistle confidently—"at least, not under that name. But I hope to deny you that pleasure by having him under lock and key before many hours."
The signal for the train's departure interrupted the conversation. Barcroft, having seen his crew into the train and the baggage in the van, entered a compartment followed by his two dogs—to bear the responsibility of navigating two of His Majesty's vessels, together with thousands of pounds worth of stores and a score of valuable lives, over six or seven hundred miles of mined waters; for which a grateful government paid him the magnificent sum of half a guinea a day.
"And how is Mrs. Barcroft?" inquired Entwistle. "I ought, of course, to have inquired before."
Peter Barcroft was lighting a cigarette.
"Mrs. Barcroft is A1, thanks," he replied. "At present she is engaged in keeping the home fires burning—with coal at fifty-five and six a ton, but I have not the faintest doubt that she will carry on to my utmost satisfaction. Well, cheerio, Entwistle! Glad to have met you again."
The train moved off, leaving Entwistle to "carry on" in his particular line even as Barcroft Senior was "doing his bit" in a different sphere.
Leaving the station, the Secret Service man made his way to the premises of Messrs. Grabnut & Plywrench. As he expected, a brief interview with the manager elicited the information that no cablegram had been sent by the firm to Holland. In fact, the Continental transactions of Messrs. Grabnut & Plywrench had ceased early in 1915. They had as much business in connection with Government contracts as they could possibly tackle.
At sunset Entwistle returned to his post of observation on the city walls. Soon York, or as much of it as he could see from his lofty perch, was in darkness. He could hear the crowds in the main thoroughfares, the whirr of machinery in the workshops, the rumble of heavily laden trains, and the "chough-chough" of motor barges on the canal conveying raw material for the manufacturing centres of Yorkshire and the coast. It was a hive of industry working under cover of darkness.
Cold work it was keeping the poverty-stricken tenement under observation. Occasionally people would pass along the narrow path on the walls. Entwistle would then lean on the lichen-grown parapet and feign a deep interest in the darkness until their footsteps died away; otherwise he hardly stirred during his prolonged vigil.
"Great Peter" would have been tolling the hour of nine had it not been that the world was at war, when Entwistle heard a street door open. Straining his eyesight, he discerned a bent figure emerging stealthily from the house he was keeping under observation.
"H'm!" he soliloquised. "A man with a military bearing ought never to trust to the disguise of decrepitude. Von Preussen, you've overreached yourself, I fancy."
Keeping under the shelter of the breast-high parapet, Entwistle moved cautiously to the steps by the side of Bootham Bar. Gaining the roadway, he pressed against the side of the Gothic archway. For the present the thoroughfare was deserted. He could hear von Preussen's boots shuffling on the cobbles. Nearer, nearer...
With a sudden spring Entwistle hurled himself upon the spy. The Secret Service agent had not mistaken his man. Almost before von Preussen knew what had happened he found himself lying face downwards on the pavement and his elbows being drawn together behind his back.
"The game's up, Karl von Preussen," exclaimed Entwistle.
"Yes," admitted the spy breathlessly. "You've scored this time. I'd like to know how you traced me."
"You will in due course," replied Entwistle grimly, as he jerked his captive to his feet.
The next instant a cloud of pungent, burning powder struck Entwistle full in the face. The sudden, agonising pain as the grains filled his eyes took the Secret Service agent completely off his guard. Gasping for breath, and holding both hands to his face, he staggered blindly against the wall. Even in his physical torment he could hear von Preussen running swiftly.
In the moment of his triumph a craven trick had robbed Entwistle of his prey.