"Well?" inquired Colonel Greyhouse laconically.
"Dashed queer business, sir," replied the major. "Pyecroft is perfectly fit mentally, which, considering what he has gone through, is rather to be wondered at. It appears our fellows boarded a derelict lighter and while on board were surprised by a Hun submarine. Pyecroft got away, had a sticky time on a water-logged boat, and finally drifted ashore more than half dead with cold and exposure. The others, it seems, were taken prisoners by the Huns. And now comes the extraordinary part of the story. We had an officer here on inspection duties. Fennelburt—Captain George Fennelburt—he announced himself on reporting."
Colonel Greyhouse nodded.
"Yes," he observed. "I know that much."
"Well, sir," explained Sparrowhawk, "he came ashore from the German submarine at night, while Pyecroft was lying helpless on the beach. Four men brought him ashore in a collapsible boat, and he vanished inland, still rigged out in R.A.F. uniform. Pyecroft can swear definitely on that point."
"And Sheerness Air Station has disclaimed all knowledge of him," remarked the C.O. "Why the deuce the Air Ministry cannot be more particular in posting the movements of officers passes my understanding! Can you give a fairly accurate description of Captain—er—Fennelburt?"
"I think so, sir; he was at the mess to lunch, and I saw a good deal of him."
"Good," ejaculated Colonel Greyhouse. "Send a report to 'Area,' and at the same time to Scotland Yard. The police will then take the matter up. You might also inform the Naval and Military Authorities. If we don't lay the fellow by the heels within the next twelve hours I'll eat my hat."
A vow that, taking into consideration the copious gold leaves that adorned the peak, was an exceedingly rash one, unless Greyhouse had the digestion of an ostrich.