CHAPTER VIII
VON PREUSSEN'S BLANK DAY
"What a ghastly welcome!" soliloquised Leutnant Karl von Preussen, as he approached the "prohibited area" of Auldhaig. For the present his assumed name was Captain George Fennelburt, R.A.F., and in adopting the name and character he had left very little to chance. His pocket-book bulged with spurious official documents, printed in Germany, and replicas of papers that had either been surreptitiously obtained from British air stations, or had been found on captured men.
It was not a pleasant sort of evening. The sea mist had turned to a steady drizzle, accompanied by gusts of icy-cold wind. On the road, cut up by exceptionally heavy motor traffic, the mud lay four inches deep. Wearing a heavy trench coat, thick boots and leggings, and encumbered by a bulky haversack, von Preussen found himself decidedly hot and clammy before he had covered many miles of his long tramp.
He had studiously avoided the cliff road, preferring to make a detour inland and to approach Auldhaig from the railway station.
At length he gained the summit of the hill overlooking the town. On his left lay the important munition factory of Sauchieblair, shrouded in utter darkness, although there were aural evidences in plenty of the activity that was in progress day and night. A mile to the north gleamed lights. Von Preussen smiled grimly as he saw them. He knew precisely the meaning of the unscreened gleams. They were decoys, shown for the purpose of putting a raider off the scent, and up to a certain point had justified their existence.
Ahead lay Auldhaig, also shrouded in utter darkness. Neither in the wide ramifications of the landlocked harbour, nor from the vast expanse of wharves and docks, was there the faintest sign of a light; but the clatter of pneumatic hammers and the rumbling of locomotives indicated pretty plainly that the shipyards were running at high pressure.
Without difficulty, von Preussen passed the guard at the block-house on the bridge and entered the sombre town. It was now four o'clock in the morning, and the spy wisely decided to make for an hotel and have a much needed rest.
In response to a knock the door of the Antelope Hotel was opened by a sleepy night porter, who evinced no surprise at the belated arrival of a guest.
"You'll be registering in the morn, sir," he remarked.