True, a whole-plate camera stood upon a stand in a corner, and there were one or two grey screens for backgrounds placed against the wall, but nothing else in the apartment showed that it was used for the purpose of photography. On the contrary, it contained a somewhat unusual apparatus, which two men present were closely examining.
Upon a strong deal table, set directly beneath the great skylight—which had been made to slide back so as to leave that portion of the roof open—was a great circular searchlight, such as is used upon ships, the glass face of which was turned upward to the sky.
Set in a circle around its face were a number of bright reflectors and prisms placed at certain angles, with, above them, a large brass ring across which white silk gauze was stretched so that the intense rays of the searchlight should be broken up, and not show as a beam in the darkness, and thus disclose its existence.
At a glance the cleverness of the arrangement was apparent. It was one of the enemy’s guiding lights for Zeppelins!
The owner of the flat, Mr. Goring, a burly, grey-haired man of fifty-five, was exhibiting with pride to his visitor a new set of glass prisms which he had that day set at the proper angle, while the man who was evincing such interest was the person who—only a few hours before—had worked in his mechanic’s overalls, at the Hendon Aerodrome, the man, Henry Knowles, who was to all intents and purposes an Englishman, having been in London since he was three years of age. Indeed, so well did he speak his Cockney dialect, that none ever dreamt that he was the son of one Heinrich Klitz, or that his Christian name was Hermann.
His host, like himself, was typically English, and had long ago paid his naturalisation fees and declared himself of the British bulldog breed. In public he was a fierce antagonist of Germany. In strongest terms he denounced the Kaiser and all his ways. He had even written to the newspapers deploring Great Britain’s mistakes, and, by all about him, was believed to be a fine, honest, and loyal Englishman. Even his wife, who now lived near Bristol, believed him to be British. Yet the truth was that he had no right to the name of Richard Goring, his baptismal name being Otto Kohler, his brother Hans occupying, at that moment, the post of President of the German Imperial Railways, the handsome offices of which are numbered 44, Linkstrasse, in Berlin.
The pair were members of the long-prepared secret enemy organisation in our midst—men living in London as British subjects, and each having his important part allotted to him to play at stated times and in pre-arranged places.
Richard Goring’s work for his country was to pose as a photographer—so that his undue use of electric-light current should not attract attention—and to keep that hidden searchlight burning night after night, in case a Zeppelin were fortunate enough to get as far as London.
As “Light-post No. 22” it was known to those cunning Teutons who so craftily established in England the most wonderful espionage system ever placed upon the world. In England there were a number of signallers and “light-posts” for the guidance of enemy aircraft, but this—one of the greatest intensity—was as a lighthouse, and marked as of first importance upon the aerial chart carried by every Zeppelin Commander.
Mr. Goring had shown and explained to his friend the improved mechanism of the light, whereupon Knowles—who now wore a smart blue serge suit and carried gloves in his hand—laughed merrily, and replied in English, for they always talked that language: