“Oh! They go each night to the training-camp at B—. They go out in two lots, one at midnight, and one at two o’clock in the morning.”
“Oh, so you supply the camp with milk, do you?”
“Yes. Before the war all our milk went up to London Bridge by train each night, but now we supply the two camps. There are fifty thousand men in training there, they say. Isn’t it splendid!” added the woman, the fire of patriotism in her eyes. “There’s no lack of pluck in the dear old country.”
“No, Mrs Dennis. All of us are trying to do our bit,” Ella said. “Does the Army Service Corps fetch the milk?”
“No, miss. They used to, but for nearly six weeks we’ve sent it in waggons ourselves. The camp at B— is ten miles from here, so it comes rather hard on the horses. It used to go in motor-lorries. Old Thomas, the man bending down over there,” and she pointed across the farm-yard, “he drives the waggon out at twelve, and Jim Jennings—who only comes of an evening—does the late delivery.”
“But the road is rather difficult from here to the camp, isn’t it?” asked the girl, as though endeavouring to recollect.
“Yes. That’s just it. They have to go right round by Shipborne to avoid the steep hill.”
Five minutes later they were in the comfortable farm-house again, and, after a further chat, Ella went forth to see how her companion was progressing.
The repair had been concluded—thanks to the coal-hammer! Ella took it back, thanked the affable Mrs Dennis, and, five minutes later, the pair were on their way to London, perfectly satisfied with the result of their investigations.
On that same evening, while Kennedy and Ella were having a light dinner together at the Piccadilly Grill before she went to the theatre, the elusive Ortmann called upon old Theodore Drost at the dark house at Castelnau, on the Surrey side of Hammersmith Bridge. He came in a taxi, and accompanying him was a grey-haired, tall, and rather lean man, who carried a heavy deal box with leather handle.