The landlady of the King’s Head—that long, thatched, old-world house over which for fifty years her husband had ruled as landlord—had no suspicion that the jeweller’s traveller was anything but an Englishman from Birmingham. He spoke English well, and had no appearance of the Teuton.
Mr. Bean ate his chop alone, waited on by Jane, who, finding him affable, imparted to him all the information she knew regarding Harbury Court and its inmates.
At half-past two the traveller, taking his bag, set out on a tour of the village in an endeavour to dispose of some of his samples. His appearance was much changed, and he bore but little resemblance to the pilot of the Royal Flying Corps who had descended near Bourne. He looked much older, and walked wearily, with a decided stoop.
At house after house in the long village street he called, disguising his intentions most perfectly. At more than one cottage he was allowed to exhibit his wares, and at the shop of the village baker the daughter in charge purchased a little brooch for five shillings. Its cost price was thirty shillings, but Mr. Bean wanted to effect a sale and, by so doing, appear to be carrying on a legitimate business.
By six o’clock he was back again at the King’s Head, having called upon most of the inhabitants of Harbury. He had, indeed, been up to the Court, and not only had he shown his samples to the maids, but he had taken two orders for rings to be sent on approval.
Incidentally he had passed “The Hornet’s” nest, and had seen the machine in the meadow outside, ready for the night flight. As a simple, hard-working, travel-stained dealer in cheap jewellery nobody had suspected him of enemy intentions. But he had laid his plans very carefully, and his observations round “The Hornet’s” nest had told him much.
To Mrs. Joyce he declared that he was very tired and, in consequence, had decided to remain the night. So he was shown up stairs that were narrow to a low-ceilinged room where the bed-stead was one that had been there since the days of Queen Anne. The chintzes were bright and clean, but the candle in its brass candlestick was a survival of an age long forgotten.
At ten o’clock he retired to bed, declaring himself very fatigued, but on going to his room he threw open the old-fashioned, latticed window, and listened. The night was very dark, but quite calm—just the night for an air raid from the enemy shore.
Having blown out his candle he sat down, alert at any sound. After nearly an hour, Mrs. Joyce and her daughter having retired to bed, he suddenly detected a slight swish in the air, quite distinct from the well-known hum of the usual aeroplane. It was a low sound, rising at one moment and lost the next. “The Hornet” had passed over the inn so quietly that it would not awaken the lightest sleeper.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud to himself. “That silencer is, indeed wonderful!”