She smiled graciously at the first sentry to halt her vehicle at the foot of the wide road leading to the fort gate. At the tall iron gates themselves, which clanked noisily open when her pass had been inspected by the guard, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was conscious of a slight tremor. The sensation of being behind closed gates—for the gates clanked immediately shut upon her entrance—filled her with a sudden throb of fear. The abrupt movements, the expressionless faces of the guard also disturbed her. She had ventured a great deal in her work on behalf of the German secret service, but this was the first occasion where she had, as it were, stepped deliberately into the jaws of the lion. Her quick eyes took in all her surroundings; the cliff rose abruptly to her left; the muzzle of a six-inch gun peering out over the Solent was visible twenty yards away upon her right. A sergeant, still holding her pass in his hand, looked at her inquiringly.
"You wish to see Lieutenant Parkson?"
"Yes, please." Her heart was still beating swiftly. She had not foreseen that the gates would be clanged ruthlessly shut behind her.
The sergeant turned on his heel.
"Will you come this way, madame?"
He began to ascend steep ladder-like steps laid against the face of the cliff. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth followed the grim khaki-clad figure.
"Please, not quite so fast," she entreated, and paused for breath.
Three hundred feet below her, looking almost straight down, she could see the blue waters of the Solent shining in the sunlight. Tiny white-crested waves fell languidly into the little bay, with its jutting pier that before the war had been thronged with holiday-makers, but which was now empty and deserted. Beyond the pier, three miles away, on the mainland promontory the tower of the Ponsonby Lighthouse gleamed beautiful and white.
"What a lovely view, sergeant."
"Yes, madame."