She did so, peering down into the darkness, and there saw the twinkling of a light—a ship was signalling rapidly, being answered by another not far away.
“Where are we going, dear?” Beryl inquired.
“On a mission,” was his abrupt response. And, though she pressed him for information, he would vouchsafe no further reply.
For a full hour they flew over the North Sea, due east, until suddenly they turned south, and with the silencer still on, went along noiselessly save for the shrill wind whistling in the struts.
From ten thousand feet they had now descended to a little over two thousand, when, all of a sudden, a distant searchlight shot forth.
“That’s the Belgian coast!” Ronnie remarked, and once again he started to ascend, flying in a complete circle and undecided as to exactly where he might be. The single shaft of light, like a moving line in the total darkness, was soon followed by others from the same neighbourhood. Circles of light could be seen, showing that the clouds were low—a fact which would favour the intrepid pair.
“We’ll give those lights a wide berth for a little,” Ronnie said cheerfully, and again he turned northward, and a little later to the south-east.
As they flew they watched those slowly-moving searchlights until, one by one, they disappeared.
“They’ve finished their sweep of the skies,” he said at last, with satisfaction. “If there’s no alarm they won’t open out again for some time.”
And then he flew in the direction of where the lights had been, descending until he was again only about two thousand feet above the sea.