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 muttered sotto voce. "No, Hans; a bargain is a 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 give you 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.