As Ronnie watched in silence he saw that for another fifty yards the German pilot held her down, and then, with a rush and that quick swoop of which the Fokker is capable, up she went, and away!
She made a circuit of perhaps eight hundred feet and then sped somewhere into the darkness upon a straight eastward course to the coast, and over the rough North Sea.
As the pair watched, still arm-in-arm, they again saw the faint tremor of our searchlights in the far distance.
“Wouff! Wouff! Wouff!” sounded faintly far away.
The Fokker had been picked up by our anti-aircraft boys, and was being fired upon!
“Wouff! Wouff!” again sounded afar. But the bark of the shell died away, and it seemed plain that the Hun machine had, by a series of side-slips, nose-dives, and quick turns, avoided our anti-aircraft guns, and was well on its way carrying those secret communications to the German General Staff.
The enemy pilot had “streaked off” eastwards, and to sea.
“Now we know this fellow Aylesworth’s game!” whispered Ronnie. “Next Thursday he will be sending away some important message. Therefore, we must be here to have a finger in the enemy’s pie—eh?”
“Certainly, dearest,” replied the gallant little woman at his side. “It certainly is a coup for you that you have discovered this secret means of communication between ourselves and the enemy.”
“Not really,” he said in a low voice. “Our people scented the mystery, and have handed it on to me to investigate.”