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.