“Yes,” she said. “I’ll tell you when I’ve been on the ’phone,” she answered. “It’s something urgent, and very important. I don’t like the look of things.”
Chapter Seventeen.
The Super-Spy.
Dawn was breaking, chill and stormy, over the grey North Sea.
On the far, misty horizon showed four little puffs of black smoke at regular intervals upon the sky-line—four British destroyers steaming on patrol duty.
Beyond, as Lewin Rodwell approached Tom Small’s cottage, he also distinguished two trawlers moving towards the left, off Sutton-on-Sea, engaged in the perilous work of mine-sweeping.
Rodwell, wearing a thick and somewhat shabby overcoat, and a golf-cap pulled well down, had trudged across from those branch roads where Penney had dropped him after his night run of nearly a hundred and sixty miles. He was tired, yet he plodded forward through the mud, for the little low-built old tarred cottage was at last in sight.
“If we can get those troop-ships it will be a grand coup for us. Molly is quite right,” he exclaimed to himself in German. “From Norddeich they can wireless away to Pola, on the Adriatic, and the Austrian submarines can go out to meet them in the Mediterranean—providing we have no undersea boats there just now.”