And then the man who called himself Knowles and who, by working as a humble mechanic at a flying school at Hendon, was able to pick up so many facts concerning our air service, explained how “The Hornet” was kept in secret somewhere out in Essex—at some spot which they had not yet discovered.
“But surely you’ll get to know,” was the other’s remark, as he leant idly against the table whereon lay the complicated apparatus of prisms, and reflectors which constituted the lighthouse to guide the enemy aircraft.
“That is the service upon which Number Seven has placed me,” was the response.
He had referred to the director of that branch of the enemy’s operations in England—the person known as “Number Seven”—the cleverly concealed secret agent who assisted to guide the invisible hand of Germany in our midst. The individual in question lived in strictest retirement, unknown even to those puppets of Berlin who so blindly obeyed his orders, and who received such lavish payment for so doing. Some of the Kaiser’s secret agents said that he lived in London; others declared that he lived on a farm in a remote village somewhere in Somerset; while others said he had been seen walking in Piccadilly with a well-known peeress. Many, on the other hand, declared that he lived in a small country town in the guise of a retired shopkeeper, interested only in his roses and his cucumber-frames.
“A pity our good friend Reichardt failed the other day,” remarked the man who posed as a photographer. “What of that girl Gaselee?”
“The next attempt will not fail, depend upon it,” was Knowles’ reply, in tones of confidence. “When Ronald Pryor dies, so will she also. The decision at Number Three last night was unanimous.” And he grinned evilly.
Then both men went forth, Goring carefully locking the door of the secret studio. Then, passing through the well-furnished flat, he closed the door behind him, and they descended the stairs.
That night just after eleven o’clock, Beryl in her warm air-woman’s kit, with her leather “grummet” with its ear-pieces buttoned beneath her chin, climbed into “The Hornet” and strapped herself into the observer’s seat.
Collins had been busy on the ’bus all the evening, testing the powerful dual engines, the searchlight, the control levers, and a dozen other details, including the all-important silencer. Afterwards he had placed in the long rack beneath the fusilage four high explosive spherical bombs, with three incendiary ones.
Therefore, when Ronnie hopped in, the machine was in complete readiness for a night flight.