A few hours later Ronald Pryor made a statement to the authorities which resulted in the explosion being regarded, to all but those immediately concerned, as a complete mystery.
CHAPTER IV.
THE THURSDAY RENDEZVOUS.
Beryl Gaselee, in her warm leather motor-coat and close-fitting little hat, stood gazing out of the coffee-room window of the Unicorn Hotel in the quiet old cathedral town of Ripon, in Yorkshire.
In the falling twilight of the wintry afternoon all looked dull and cheerless. The car stood outside with Ronald Pryor and Collins attending to some slight engine-trouble—the fast, open car which Ronnie sometimes used to such advantage. It was covered with mud, after the long run north from Suffolk, for they had started from Harbury long before daylight, and, until an hour ago, had been moving swiftly up the Great North Road, by way of Stamford, Grantham, and Doncaster to York. There they had turned away to Ripon, where, for an hour, they had eaten and rested. In a basket the waiter had placed some cold food with some bread and a bottle of wine, and this had been duly transferred to the car.
All was now ready for a continuance of the journey.
“Well, Beryl!” exclaimed Ronnie, returning to where the pretty young air-woman was standing before the fire. “All ready—eh?”
“Quite, dear,” was her reply. “You haven’t forgotten the revolvers, have you?” she asked in a low voice.
“No. There’s one for each of us—and one for you if you’d like it,” he laughed.
“Yes. I think I’d better have it, dear—one never knows.”