Captain Desmond Blakehad hit the mark when he described the soi-disant Belgian lieutenant as a star. Subsequent enquiries revealed the fact that the real lieutenant Etienne Fauvart had been captured by the Germans in an affair of outposts near Dixmude. Armed with the papers found in the prisoner's possession and clad in a Belgian uniform a German staff officer had so successfully impersonated Lieutenant Fauvart that he had deceived the British staff officers. With the express purpose of luring the secret battleplane he had offered his services, and had made a true statement as to the position of the German Zeppelin sheds. Therein lay the secret of his ruse, for the British Intelligence Division already had some knowledge of the Zeppelin base, and finding that the supposed Belgian officer's description tallied with their reports, their suspicions, if any existed, were disarmed. If on the other hand the spy had indicated a Zeppelin station that had an existence only in his imagination he knew that he ran a grave risk of having his information challenged and himself arrested, court-martialled and shot.
Confident in his belief that the British secret battleplane would be rendered incapable of getting within effective distance of the Zeppelin sheds of Olhelt, he did not hesitate to indicate their exact position.
Once he succeeded in getting taken as one of the battleplane's crew he had no difficulty in compelling the machine to make a forced landing. Taking advantage of the excuse to fetch his coat, he had, during Dick's temporary absence, contrived to spray the high tension wire with a powerful corrosive. The wire, it must be explained, led from the magneto in a single length, afterwards branching into a number of subsidiary wires to the respective sparking plugs of the cylinders. By spraying the electric current conductor between the junction and the magneto the whole of the firing was put out of action simultaneously, after the acid had taken time to eat through the guttapercha insulating cover.
When Dick discovered the failure, but was unable at the time to ascertain the cause, he fortunately removed the high tension wires and replaced them with a spare set, which Blake, with commendable forethought, had made in case of emergency.
It will now be necessary to follow Athol Hawke's movements from the time when he followed the unsuspected spy into the wood.
Keeping close to the supposed Fauvart's heels the lad moved rapidly and cautiously, carefully avoiding treading upon dry twigs that littered the ground.
At intervals the lieutenant turned to reassure himself that the British airman was following, making signs to him to keep close. Proceeding thus they covered about two hundred yards, when suddenly the spy turned and grappled Athol by throwing both arms round the lad's body and pinning his arms to his sides. At the same time Athol saw numbers of German troops emerging from behind the trees.
Like a flash of lightning the lad realised that Fauvart was a spy. With a sudden wrench he freed his right arm, and drew his revolver, and fired at his captor. Only by adroitly ducking his head did Fauvart escape the bullet. As it was his forehead and hair were singed by the blast from the muzzle.
With a muttered curse the spy hurled the lad violently against the trunk of a tree, at the same time ordering some of the soldiers to secure the prisoner. Since Athol's shot had given the alarm, the question of an effective surprise no longer held good. Led by the officer in Belgian uniform the Germans, who had quite prepared for the contingency, rushed through the wood towards the British battleplane.
Bruised and shaken by his fall, Athol found himself roughly pulled upon his feet. With a burly Prussian on either side and a sergeant following, holding a revolver—Athol's own—against the prisoner's head, the lad was forced onwards, further and further away from his comrades.
Then came the sharp reports of a dozen rifle-shots followed by the well-known sound of the battleplane's motors running "all out," and the angry shouts of the foiled Huns.
Soon Athol and his guards were overtaken by the soldiers who had hoped to capture the British aircraft. Knowing the German language tolerably well, the lad overheard their conversation, although the disappointed mien of the Huns would have been sufficient to tell him that their efforts had been foiled.
To the accompaniment of the firing of the anti-aircraft guns Athol was hurried along. Presently the party arrived at another clearing. Here the Huns halted, looking skywards to see if the battleplane was still in sight. Athol followed their example.
What they saw did not help the Huns' good temper, for even as they watched they saw the battleplane loop the loop in the misty twilight, shedding several dark forms as she did so. Two of the bodies of the luckless Germans fell with a sickening crash within fifty yards of their watching comrades, while to Athol's intense satisfaction, notwithstanding the horror of the scene, he saw the Belgian-uniformed spy dashed to the ground almost at the feet of the men he had so treacherously summoned to seize the secret battleplane.
"Himmel!" ejaculated one of the Prussians. "They'll be dropping bombs on us soon. Let us hasten."
Still gripping their prisoner the men hurried off into the depths of the woods, where under the trees it was hardly possible to see one's hand before one's face. Stumbling over exposed roots, cannoning into tree trunks, the Huns continued their way. Athol overheard one of them say that the Zeppelin sheds were not a safe place for them, and that they had better make off in a different direction until the English aircraft had disappeared.
Even as he spoke a lurid flash threw a vivid glare over the sky, the gleam even penetrating the thick foliage. The crash that followed shook the ground, and sent a shower of leaves and twigs whirling from the trees. The Huns broke into a run, still retaining their hold upon their captive.
Another and yet another deafening detonation followed. The heavens glowered with the blood-red flames from the blazing Zeppelin sheds. Débris hurtled through the air all around the lad and his guards, although the scene of the explosion was at least half a mile away. The atmosphere reeked of the smoke of burning oil.
Presently the Huns, well-nigh breathless, came to a halt.
"It's all over now, Fritz," said one. "No more bombs have fallen. And Herr Major would have us believe that the English airmen were no good."
"It is all very well for Herr Major," retorted the other. "He, no doubt, is safe in his bomb-proof cellar. I, for one, should not be sorry if an English bomb blew him sky high. He makes our existence a misery. It is far worse than at——"
A dazzling flash seemed to leap from the ground almost at Athol's feet. He was dimly conscious of being hurled backwards, deafened by the noise of the detonation.
For quite a minute he lay still, not daring to move, and dimly wondering whether he were yet alive. Then he opened his eyes.
Some fifty yards off a fire was burning. In the centre of a circle of up-torn trees flames were bursting from a mass of débris, and throwing a ruddy glare upon the surrounding scene. The flames were spreading in the direction where he lay. He tried to rise. At first his efforts were unavailing. Something heavy was pinning him down: that something turning out to be the unconscious form of one of his guards. The other, huddled against an uprooted tree, was groaning dismally.
A sharp, burning pain on his right leg just above the knee warned Athol forcibly of his peril. An ember from the conflagration had settled on the limb and had burnt through his uniform trousers. Giving a tremendous heave the lad freed himself of his encumbrance and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"I'll have to drag those beggars out of it," he muttered, as he contemplated the helpless forms of his former captors. "They'll be burnt to cinders if I don't."
Suiting the action to the words he seized one of the Huns under the shoulders. It was as much as he could do, strong as he was, to drag the sixteen stone of listless humanity even a few yards.
Suddenly he became aware that men were hurrying through the wood. For the first time the realisation that there was a possibility of escape flashed across his mind. Pausing only to recover his revolver and ammunition he withdrew, intent upon putting a safe distance between him and the approaching Huns before coming to any definite plan of a bid for safety.
"Jolly near shave," he soliloquised. "I reckon Desmond Blake didn't know how close that last bomb came to blowing me sky-high."
He had yet to learn that Sergeant O'Rafferty's awkwardness had been instrumental in freeing him, temporarily at least, from the clutches of the Huns.
Nighthad fallen when Athol emerged from the dense wood. Overhead the stars were shining brightly, although occasionally obscured by drifts of pungent smoke from the still burning Zeppelin sheds. In front lay an expanse of open fields, dotted here and there by isolated farm buildings, while in the distance, and thrown into strong relief by the flames, were the spires and roofs of a fairly large town.
"The Dutch frontier: that's my objective," decided Athol. "It's not more than ten miles away. North-west is the bearing, and I have about seven hours of darkness before me. None too much time, if I have to go cautiously."
Fixing his direction by means of the North Star the lad set out, treading softly and straining his ears to catch the faintest suspicious sound. As he proceeded other problems confronted him. He knew from report that the frontier was guarded and that a barbed wire fence formed a formidable barrier. More, the fence had a live wire of high voltage running through it, contact with which meant death to the human being or animal that incautiously attempted to pass from one frontier to another.
Also, in the event of success in the matter of gaining Dutch territory there was the almost certainty of being interned unless he could discard his uniform and procure civilian clothes. Much, then, had to be done before dawn.
Although by order of the German authorities the Belgians in the occupied territory were obliged to be within doors at sunset, the roads were far from being unfrequented. Motor-cars, bearing excited and furious German staff officers, rushed to and fro, for the destruction of the Zeppelin sheds was a severe blow to the Teutonic organisation. There was no rest that night for the Huns at Limburg.
It was unsafe for Athol to keep to the highway. For hours he pressed on, stopping frequently to take shelter while parties of Germans hurried along the tree-lined roads. It was not half so dark as the lad would have liked, and now that his eyes were accustomed to the starlit night he found he could see with tolerable clearness for a distance of several hundred yards. Conversely it was equally possible for a German sentry to spot him from a like distance. Vainly he hoped that it would rain, or that heavy clouds would obscure the star-spangled sky.
He was becoming very hungry. His latest meal was but a reminiscence. Water, of which he found plenty, assuaged his thirst, but it was a sorry substitute for the wholesome fare to which he was accustomed.
Three times he had to make a detour to avoid various compact hamlets. Once a dog began barking, rousing all the other canines in the neighbourhood, with the result that the lad had to retrace his steps, throw himself down and lie perfectly still until the clamour had subsided—a loss of half an hour's precious time.
"I can't be so very far off the frontier now," thought Athol. "Now comes the crucial test."
He found himself on the point of crossing a fairly broad highway, unfenced but lined with gaunt trees. Almost before he was aware of the fact he nearly collided with two German officers.
Fortunately for Athol their backs were turned to him. They were standing on the edge of the road close to a large tree that had effectually prevented the lad from noticing their presence. They were muffled in long cloaks through which the hilts of their swords protruded. Their spurs shone dully in the starlight as they impatiently shuffled their feet. In silence they stood, their gaze fixed intently down the highway.
With his heart in his mouth Athol backed with the utmost caution. As he did so his foot broke a dry twig. He dropped lying face downwards in the dewy grass, not daring to stir hand or foot until the Huns moved away. They were officers, he knew, and not sentries. Consequently there was no reason why they should stop there indefinitely. At the same time Athol felt curious to know why a couple of cloaked cavalry officers should be standing mutely on the highway at the hour of midnight.
Athol's fingers closed on the butt of his Webley. For the first time he realised the companionship of his Service revolver. Without it his whole attention would have been getting away unperceived; thanks to the knowledge that he had a reliable weapon at his command he could run the risk with comparative equanimity of tackling the pair of Huns. But only should occasion arise. For the present he was content to keep watch upon the mysterious inaction of the silent twain.
"Wish they'd get a move on," muttered Athol, after keeping in a prone position for nearly twenty minutes. The night was bitterly cold. His limbs were beginning to feel stiff and cramped in contact with the damp ground.
A sharp tug at his leather leggings almost caused the lad to utter an exclamation of alarm. For the minute he imagined that he was again in the grip of the Hun, until, turning his head, he saw a huge rat scampering off. The officers heard the sound, too, for they both looked intently in the direction of the startled rodent. Then one moved a few paces towards the centre of the road.
"They are coming, von Bohmer," he remarked.
"And about time," grumbled the other. "And, even now, we do not know whether von Secker will venture. If ever a man blunders through excessive caution it is friend Karl."
Von Secker—Karl. The names seemed familiar to the listening British subaltern. Yes, by Jove he had it: Karl von Secker, the spy and employer of the luckless Sigismund Selighoffer, and the fellow who had made off with Desmond Blake's plans of the secret battleplane.
Athol, with his ear almost in contact with the ground, could now distinctly hear the rumble of cart wheels and the sharp clatter of a horse's hoofs. A little later the vehicle pulled up, and a man dressed as a Dutch peasant threw the reins across the animal's neck and got down.
"What, alone, Herr Stein!" exclaimed von Bohmer. "Von Secker, then, has failed us. Has he sent any papers?"
"He says it is not safe to leave Dutch territory," replied the new-comer, "or, rather it is unsafe to enter it again from this side He is nervous—just imagine our von Secker being nervous."
The man addressed as Stein laughed uproariously. It was obvious that he was a German officer in disguise, otherwise he would not have dared to express his mirth in the presence of the haughty von Bohmer and his companion.
"But the documents, man!" exclaimed the latter impatiently.
"He says they are too bulky to send without risk of detection by the customs at the frontier. He assured me that the search is strict on the part of the Dutchmen; far more so than by the Englanders at Harwich."
"Then in Thor's name, how are we to get them?" asked von Bohmer. "Here they are, within five miles of German territory, and von Secker is frightened."
"I think that it is a question of payment," suggested Herr Stein. "However, the plans are at his lodgings at the Sign of the Golden Key in Weert. He says that early to-morrow morning he will photograph them, so that should they be seized we will still have something to work upon. And, I believe in consideration of a sum of gold in advance, he will then hand the plans over to me."
"Where can we get gold at this hour?" grumbled von Bohmer's companion. "I can understand von Secker's anxiety to secure photographs of the plans, since he is to be paid by actual results. It would be well to call upon him to-morrow, and let him know distinctly that it is the will of the General Staff that the plans should be delivered to them forthwith. Is not that so, von Bohmer?"
The officer addressed grunted in assent.
"We must be off," he said. "To-morrow, Herr Stein, we hope to offer you hospitality at the mess."
The officers turned and walked rapidly down the road in the direction of Hasselt, but before they had gone very far two orderlies leading their horses slipped from under the cover of a tree. Although they were less than a hundred yards from the spot where Athol lay, neither he nor they had the faintest suspicion of their respective presence.
As for the disguised German von Stein, he clambered into the cart, and, setting the horse at a leisurely pace, drove off in the direction of Weert, a town lying a few miles within the Dutch frontier.
Athol waited until von Bohmer and his companion had disappeared, then, keeping close to the line of trees, broke into a steady run, his boots making hardly any noise on the soft ground by the side of thepavé. It was not long before he came in sight of the lumbering vehicle, which, although proceeding slowly, made a loud clatter as the ironshod wheels rolled over the rough stones.
Unheard the lad overtook the cart and clambered softly on the tail-board. Stein was sitting on a board resting on the side of the cart, with his head on his hands and his elbows supported by his knees. In this hunched-up position he looked half asleep, while the horse, left to its own devices, walked stolidly along the centre of the highway.
Presently the road ascended a slight rise, which for this part of the country might be considered as a hill. Athol could discern the formidable line of barbed wire marking, the frontier boundary. Apparently there were no troops guarding this particular section, Already the majority of the Landsturm soldiers had been withdrawn from the policing of the frontier and had been sent to fill up appalling gaps in the German first-line trenches.
"Sorry, my man," soliloquised the lad, "but needs must."
He brought the butt end of his revolver smartly down upon Herr Stein's head. Without a sound the Hun dropped senseless to the floor of the cart.
Leaping to the ground Athol stopped the horse. Then he listened intently. Everything seemed quiet, although he knew it was quite possible that a sentry, his suspicions aroused by the stopping of the rattling vehicle, might appear upon the scene.
Still keeping his ears and eyes keenly on the alert, Athol quickly stripped the unconscious German of his coat, blouse, trousers and wooden shoes, slipping the garments over his uniform. His boots he was obliged to discard in favour of the ungainly "klompen."
His next step was to release the horse from the shafts and to set the animal adrift, after having removed the bit. This done Athol pushed the cart to the edge of the road and on the grass. From this point the ground shelved with comparative steepness to the barbed wire fencing.
"Wonder if it's heavy enough for the job?" thought the lad.
He caught sight of a pile of large stones, the remains of a demolished building. Working desperately he quickly transferred a number of stones to the floor of the cart. Then he paused for a well-earned breather.
Giving a final glance at the luckless Herr Stein, who was now breathing stertorously, Athol lifted the shafts and backed the cart down the incline. Gathering way the now heavily laden vehicle dashed towards the fence. Not until the back of the cart was within a yard of the barrier did Athol relinquish his grasp of the shafts.
Charging the wire fence fairly and squarely the novel battering ram bore all before it, sweeping an expanse of nearly ten yards of obstruction from its supports. The live wire, short-circuiting and emitting a series of vivid blue sparks, was writhing like a snake.
Using the wreckage of the overturned cart as a bridge Athol crossed the once formidable barrier and gained Dutch territory.
"So well, so good," he exclaimed thankfully. Then seized with an inspiration, he added, "And why shouldn't I pay von Secker a visit at the Sign of the Golden Key?"
Makinga long detour Athol eventually rejoined the road leading to Weert, this time quite two miles from the frontier custom-house. By his watch, which fortunately had escaped the unwelcome attentions of his former captors, it was now half past three. Already the stars were beginning to pale before the first blush of dawn. Ahead he could discern the quaint gabled roofs of the little town where the spy Secker had taken up his temporary abode.
Crawling into a dry ditch, the now drowsy lad propped his back against the sloping side and dosed fitfully. Once he was awakened by the measured tread of armed men. It was now broad daylight. The soldiers were Dutch troops going to relieve the frontier guards.
Lying at full length in the ditch he was unnoticed by the soldiers. Discovery at that early stage of the proceedings, although his personal liberty was not likely to be interfered with except for a short duration of investigation, was most undesirable. He had before him a fixed purpose, far more important to the welfare of his country than was his own freedom.
"Enough sleep for the present," he exclaimed. "Why, it's close on six o'clock, and, by Jove, I do feel peckish! Wonder what friend Stein has in his voluminous pockets."
A search provided nothing in the victualling department. There were a bundle of papers, including a Dutch passport and a permit for Jan van Wyck to cross the frontier; a purse containing fifteen gulden, some German marks and a few copper and iron coins—the latter having been issued in Germany to replace the withdrawn copper currency; and, what was particularly handy, a large scale map of the district.
Practically unnoticed by the throng of country-folk, for it happened to be market day, Athol entered the town. A cup of coffee and two hot rolls, purchased from a very deaf old Dutchwoman at a stall, served to stave off the pangs of hunger, and the lad felt fit for the furtherance of his daring venture.
It was as yet too early to pay a call at the Golden Key. On the other hand it was not advisable to defer the visit until the hour mentioned by Herr Stein, for by that time the spy might have been warned of the fate that had overtaken his intermediary. Waiting, Athol found, was the most tedious part of the whole business. Thanks to his disguise he attracted hardly any attention in the crowded market-place; nor did his ignorance of the Dutch language cause him any inconvenience, for the town was full of Germans, intent upon buying market produce at fabulously high prices.
Paper money, the lad noticed, passed freely, although at a low rate of exchange. The astute Dutchmen had learnt to profit by the fall of the mark, receiving payment in paper money and afterwards returning the notes to Germany, where they were, by Imperial decree, to be accepted at their face value. Judging by the conversation of the German customers, whose tongues wagged with a freedom unknown across the frontier, the civilian element was chafing under the shortage of food and abnormal prices, and one and all seemed sick of the war, which showed no signs of ending, and certainly not with the dazzling success which the Kaiser had promised.
Half-past seven was chiming as Athol ascended the flight of stone steps leading to the door of the Golden Key. In answer to his knock a short and very fat elderly woman appeared, and curtly demanded the lad's business. Although the question was put in Dutch Athol guessed its purport, and, replying in German, asked if Mynheer Jan van Wyck lodged there?
"Didn't you call upon him last night?" demanded the Dutchwoman sharply.
Athol was temporarily taken aback. He was priding himself upon his diplomacy in asking for the spy under his Dutchnom-de-guerre, when the woman's question "shook the wind out of his sails."
Producing a couple of gulden Athol slipped the coins into the woman's hand, and solemnly winked his left eye. The result surpassed his wildest expectations, for standing aside, thevrouwmotioned for him to enter.
"Second door to the right on the first floor," she announced as she pocketed the money, and without paying further attention to Jan van Wyck's visitor she disappeared towards the back of the house.
Ascending the worn oak stairs Athol, making certain that his revolver was ready to hand, tapped very softly upon the door. Receiving no answer he rapped again. Then he heard a key turn in the lock and the door was opened for a space of about four inches.
The spy had only just got out of bed. He looked but half awake. That was, possibly, why he failed to distinguish between the genuine Herr Stein and his impersonator, the appropriated clothes being a sufficient disguise.
"Come in," he growled. "You are much too early. Why didn't you give the sign, or did you think I would not open if you did?"
Still grumbling, and with his face averted, von Secker shuffled across the room to a table on which were spread several sheets of drawing paper and tracing cloth.
"You are still too early," he continued. "I suppose you are here again concerning the plans?"
"I am, Karl von Secker," said Athol sternly, at the same time covering the spy with his revolver.
The effect of the words, spoken in English, was electrical. In an instant the German's lassitude dropped from him like a shedded garment. Seizing a lead paper-weight from the table he poised it to hurl at the lad's head.
Athol hesitated. Not that he was lost, but because he was confronted with a tricky problem. Setting aside the compunction he felt at shooting down a man, even though he were a dangerous spy, he realised that the house would be alarmed at the report of the weapon. He was out to regain possession of the battleplane's plans, not to get himself arrested by the Dutch authorities on a charge of murder.
It was as if von Secker read his thoughts, for the spy, scowling and grinding his teeth, made no further attempt to hurl the lump of metal. He, too, did not wish to be embroiled with the officials of a neutral government, although here was a good chance of making his escape across the frontier.
Athol lowered his revolver. Von Secker replaced the paper weight, although he still kept his fingers in contact with it.
"You have come on a fool's errand, young man," snarled the spy.
Athol, regretting that he had not discarded his clumsy wooden shoes, looked his antagonist straight in the face.
"We shall see," he retorted, then dropping his revolver on the floor, he leapt upon the Hun.
Too late von Secker grasped the paper weight. The next instant both antagonists were locked in mortal combat, Athol endeavouring to pin his opponent's arms to his sides, while von Secker did his level best to free his hands and employ the truly Hunnish trick of twisting his fingers in the other's hair and clawing at his eyes with his thumbs.
As if by tacit consent they struggled in comparative silence, rolling over and over on the massive oaken floor. It was a test of British brawn and endurance against German trickery and bodily weight, Athol striving to deal the spy a stunning blow with his fist.
Once von Secker all but succeeded in blinding his antagonist. His podgy fingers were entwined in the British lad's short hair, and his long thumb nails were scratching their way over Athol's forehead when the young subaltern butted violently. At the loss of a considerable amount of hair Athol succeeded in dealing the German a terrific blow at the chin with the top of his head.
Uttering a subdued yell of pain the spy relaxed his grip, then clutched blindly at the lad's throat. Over and over they rolled again, until in the course of the deadly struggle a charcoal stove was overturned.
The glowing embers spreading across the floor emitted suffocating fumes in the already ill-ventilated room, until it became evident that the result of the combat would depend upon which of the twain could longest withstand the asphyxiating smoke.
Momentarily labouring under increasing shortness of breath, Athol perceived that the effects of the fumes upon the Hun were telling far more than they did upon him. The German's furious efforts showed signs of slackening. His yellow features grew livid. Great beads of perspiration oozed from his receding forehead.
Wrenching himself clear Athol regained his feet.
"Do you give in?" he demanded.
Von Secker's reply was to draw up one leg and lash out as hard as he could. Although barefooted he could kick with the force of an experienced Continental boxer. Struck heavily in the side Athol reeled half-way across the room, while his antagonist, quick to reap the advantage, staggered to his feet. His strength was not equal to his will power. His knees gave way under him as he lurched towards the lad.
Well-nigh maddened with the pain, the English lad saw an opening. Breaking through the German's guard he planted his left with terrific violence on the point of the Hun's chin. The fight was over.
Far from showing elation over his victory Athol locked the door, threw open the casement and sat down in a chair. The fact that none of the rest of the household had appeared upon the scene puzzled him. Perhaps, he argued, they were accustomed to brawls.
Recovering his breath he set to work to stamp out the still smoking charcoal. This done he dragged the unconscious von Secker on to the bed and covered him with the clothes. Only a close examination would reveal the fact that he was not asleep.
The plans he folded into a small compass, applying pressure to make them lie flat, and stowed them away under his uniform. The rest of the documents, including the spy's code and maps he thrust into the stove and set fire to them. Without the slightest compunction he examined the contents of von Secker's pockets, taking his money, hotel coupons, a ticket on the Dutch State railways and a return between the Hook of Holland and Harwich.
Unlocking the door the lad listened. Everything seemed normal. Somewhere from a remote part of the house came the sounds of pots and kettles being vigorously scoured.
Passing out and locking the door on the senseless spy, the lad crept downstairs as silently as his wooden shoes would permit. The outer door was now ajar. Unseen he gained the open street, which fortunately was in an unfrequented quarter. As he did so he heard the old Dutch woman who kept the Golden Key shouting a farewell. In spite of his precautions she had heard his footsteps.
"The worst of doing things by stealth," thought Athol. "She will be suspicious." "What time does the public coach leave for the frontier?" he asked, bestowing another tip. It was, he reminded himself, some of von Secker's money.
"At half-past eight, from the Market Hall." she replied.
Athol set off in the opposite direction to the one he intended taking. It heightened the deception that he was making for the frontier. Not until he had mingled with the throng in the market square did he set of by a circuitous route, striking the Eindhoven road.
At that town, he found out by consulting the map, he could take train to Bois-le-Duc, and thence through Utrecht to the Hook.
"It won't be my fault if I am not home again within thirty-six hours," he soliloquised. "So here goes. I wonder what von Secker will say when he wakes up?"
Havingcovered a considerable distance Athol sat down behind a tree and made a hearty meal of some meat pies which he had taken the precaution to buy in Weert. By this time the excitement and lack of sufficient sleep were beginning to tell very forcibly. Even as he ate he felt himself nodding drowsily.
It was growing very warm as the sun rose higher in the heavens. The air was close and oppressive. Away to the southward, dark copper-coloured clouds were working up against the light breeze. There was every indication of a thunderstorm breaking at no distant time.
Presently a dull intermittent buzzing sound fell upon the lad's ears.
"An aeroplane," he muttered drowsily, hardly able to evince any interest in the familiar noise, until by the erratic sound of the engine he knew that something was amiss.
"Another Aviatik out of its bearings, I suppose," he said to himself. Then he looked upwards, trying to detect the plane against the dazzling light overhead.
The sound of the motor increased in volume. Chagrined at his failure to locate the source of the noise, Athol's interest deepened. He scanned the sky until he perceived the hitherto elusive machine.
It was a monoplane, flying fairly low, and proceeding in a westerly direction with a decided tendency to describe a right-handed curve. Although not immediately overhead, it was sufficiently close for the lad to distinguish the marking on the wings, fuselage, and vertical rudder.
Greatly to his surprise the monoplane bore the familiar red, white and blue concentric rings that denoted it to be a British machine.
"Whatever is that fellow doing over here?" wondered the lad. "He's placed the whole of Belgium between him and our lines. By Jove, if he starts dropping bombs about here there'll be trouble!"
But the airman made no attempt to let fall his cargo of explosives. Still describing a long erratic curve and decreasing his altitude as he did so he was soon almost invisible from the place where Athol stood—merely a shimmer of silvery-grey against the dark sky.
"Wish the fellow, whoever he is, had stopped to give me a lift," said the foot-sore subaltern as he resumed his dusty journey. "It's jolly rotten having to pad the hoof after one has been used to a hundred miles an hour or more through the air."
A few minutes later he noticed that the monoplane had swung round and was almost retracing its former course, and heading toward the east—in the direction of Germany.
"Perhaps he's trying to find Essen," thought Athol. "Krupp's place can't be much more than sixty miles away. Evidently he's lost his bearings and has just picked up a landmark. Yet it's strange that he's flying alone and right over a neutral country."
It was not long before the lad was forced to admit that his theory was at fault, for the monoplane suddenly executed a sharp turn and making a nose-dive was within an ace of crashing violently to the ground. Only in the nick of time did the machine "flatten out," alighting at a distance of almost two miles from the now highly-interested lad.
To see whether the pilot had effected a safe landing, or otherwise, Athol was at that time unable to determine, owing to the slight irregularity of the ground. He took to his heels along the highway in the direction of the settled monoplane.
Hitherto the road had been little frequented that morning, beyond a few market carts and knots of country-folk making their way to town. But now people appeared as if by magic. Every field seemed to disgorge two or three, every house half a dozen or more, including a large proportion of children—all intent on hurrying to see the foreign aircraft.
In less than twelve minutes Athol arrived upon the scene. The monoplane was apparently undamaged save for a buckled landing-wheel, until closer inspection revealed the fact that the 'plane was honeycombed with bullet-holes. Jagged holes, too, were visible in the fuselage, as well as the splaying marks of bullets that had failed to penetrate the light steel armour.
The pilot, a boyish-looking lieutenant, was behaving in a most eccentric fashion. He had alighted and had discarded his yellow leather coat and helmet. Across his forehead was a dark streak of dried blood. With one hand in his trousers pocket he was walking rapidly round and round the stranded monoplane, wildly waving his disengaged hand and shouting in unmistakable and forcible English for someone to oblige him with a match.
As he walked he tottered slightly. More than once he collided with the tips of the wings and brushed awkwardly against the rudder. The crowd, keeping a discreet distance, watched with amazement; giving back whenever a collision with the eccentric Englishman appeared imminent.
"Come on, you fellows!" he appealed. "Who'll oblige with a match? Quickly, before those strafed Bosches come on the scene! A match. Does no one understand?"
To his intense satisfaction Athol saw that there were no soldiers or civil guards amongst the throng, although at any moment the Dutch military officials might appear upon the scene. The spectators were for the most part men and women of the agricultural class.
"Can I bear a hand?" asked the lad, elbowing his way through the crowd.
"Thank God, a British voice!" exclaimed the airman, coming to an abrupt halt, and holding out his hand—not towards Athol but towards a man some feet to his left.
In a flash Athol understood. The luckless pilot of the monoplane was almost blind. He grasped the airman's hand, and drew him back from the crowd.
"You are in Holland," he said. "I saw you descend, and I guessed something was wrong. You've been hit pretty badly, I fear?"
"Got it properly in the neck this time," declared the lieutenant grimly. "Across the forehead—one eye gone, worse luck, and the other almost bunged up. Much as I could do to see the land. Couldn't do it now, by Jove! I've a chunk of one of their strafed Iron Crosses in my thigh, too. It's not much, but mighty unpleasant. Wanted to burn the machine, but found my matches had gone. Pocket of my coat shot clean away. But who are you?"
The flying man spoke in quick jerky sentences. His wounds were giving him acute pain. Already he was bordering upon delirium, his injuries aggravated by his inability, as he imagined, to prevent his machine falling into the hands of he enemy.
"Yes, you are in Dutch territory," Athol reassured him. Then, seized with an inspiration he asked, "Is the plane all right?"
"Far as I know," was the reply. "Why?"
"Because I belong to the R.F.C.," announced Athol. "Came a cropper near Hasselt yesterday and managed to get clear. If you can hold out for a couple of hours we'll fetch our lines, barring accidents. I'll take her when we're properly up, but it's the take-off and the landing part that are beyond me."
"Come along, then," exclaimed the other, his injuries forgotten in the prospect of saving his machine. "She's only a single-seater, so you'll have to perch up behind me."
Athol had to assist him to his seat. Deftly the almost sightless man tested the controls, and put the self-starter into operation. Without a hitch the propeller began to revolve, the crowd giving back at the first explosions.
"Hurry, man, hurry!" exclaimed Athol. "There are Dutch troops coming along the road."
"No internment for me, if I can help it," shouted the other, in order to make himself heard above the roar of the propeller. "So here goes."
Accelerating the engine, the lieutenant set the monoplane in motion, Athol shouting directions into his ear to enable him to avoid various obstructions in the way. For nearly two hundred yards the machine rolled over the ground, wobbling under the erratic revolutions of the buckled landing-wheel, until gaining sufficient momentum it rose steadily in the air.
"Now take her," exclaimed the pilot in a strong voice that surprised his companion by the volume of sound. "Let me know when your aerodrome is in sight. You'll find it easier than you would mine, and after all it doesn't much matter so long as it is a British one."
At a mean altitude of five thousand feet Athol steered the monoplane on a compass course. The wounded pilot had changed places with the lad, and was resting one hand lightly on the latter's shoulder. Beyond the few sentences he had spoken on relinquishing the steering-wheel the lieutenant maintained silence.
The monoplane proved a veritable flier, for in a little more than half the time Athol had estimated it was over the lines of the opposing armies.
Far beneath them a squadron of British aeroplanes was actively engaged, for the British guns were strafing the Huns with terrible violence. Not a single German aircraft appeared to join in combat with the intruders over their lines, for the British machines were doing good work by registering the results of the heavy shells.
"The flying ground is in sight," reported Athol. "Will you take her now?"
"Right-o," replied the lieutenant. "Tell me when to flatten out."
He depressed the aerilons.The monoplane's tailrose as it swept landwards at terrific speed. Athol, holding the pilot's binoculars, brought the glasses to bear upon the landscape.
"Wind's dead against us," he announced.
"That's good," rejoined the wounded man. "It will save us making a turn. Say when."
The ground seemed to be rising to meet them. Objects, a few seconds before hardly discernible, resolved themselves into buildings of various sizes, most of them roofless owing to the effects of repeated bombardments. Little mud-coloured specks developed into khaki-clad figures. And—a cheering sight indeed—there was the secret battleplane just folding her wings before returning to her hangar. In his imagination Athol felt certain that he could distinguish Blake and Dick superintending the labours of half a dozen men as they guided the huge bird into its nest.
There was no time to use the binoculars. The ground seemed perilously close.
"Now," exclaimed Athol.
With a perceptible jerk the direction of downward flight was checked. Then, giving a decided bump as the buckled landing-wheel touched the ground, the monoplane "taxied" for full fifty yards, and halted within ten feet of a group of officers, who scattered right and left as the machine bounded awkwardly towards them.
Athol, kneeling on the deck of the fuselage, touched his companion in order to guide him to the ground. The pilot, still holding the steering-wheel, made no effort to move.
"Do you want me to give you a hand?" he asked, touching him again, Still no response.
"What's wrong with your pilot?" enquired one of the officers anxiously.
Athol crawled forward and looked into his companion's face. The lieutenant's blood-rimmed eyes were wide open and staring fixedly in front of him, but they were the eyes of a corpse. The gallant pilot's mind had triumphed over his physical injuries up to the very moment that he had brought the monoplane safely to earth. He had gained at least one desire: he had brought his machine back to the British lines.