Beryl of the Biplane. William Le Queux
nodded, and then he quickly banked and came down upon a low hill of pastures and woods about five miles east of the church spire.
The meadow wherein they glided to earth in the golden sunset was some distance from a small hamlet which lay down in the valley through which ran a stream glistening in the light, and turning an old-fashioned water-mill on its course. Then, as Ronnie unstrapped himself from his seat and hopped out, he exclaimed:
“Now, dear! You must rest for an hour or two, otherwise I shall not allow you to go up with me after Zepps to-night.”
His smart young mechanic, a fellow named Collins, from the aeroplane works came running up, while Ronnie assisted Beryl out of the machine.
In a corner of the field not far distant was a long barn of corrugated iron, which Ronnie had transformed into a hangar for “The Hornet”—and this they termed “The Hornet’s Nest.” To this they at once wheeled the great machine, Beryl bearing her part in doing so and being assisted by two elderly farm-hands.
Then Collins, the mechanic, having received certain instructions, his master and Beryl crossed the meadow and, passing through a small copse, found themselves upon the lawn of a large, old-fashioned house called Harbury Court. The place, a long, rambling two-storied Georgian one, with a wide porch and square, inartistic windows, was partly covered by ivy, while its front was gay with geraniums and marguerites.
There came forward to meet the pair Beryl’s married sister Iris, whose husband, Charles Remington, a Captain in the Munsters, had been many months at the Front, and was now, alas! a prisoner of war in Germany.
“I heard you arrive,” she said cheerily, addressing the pair. And then she told them how she had waited tea for them. Neither being averse from another cup, the trio passed through the French window into the big, cool drawing-room with its bright chintzes, gay flowers, and interesting bric-a-brac.
While Beryl went half-an-hour later to her room to rest, and Ronnie joined Collins to test various portions of the ’bus and its apparatus before the night flight, a curious scene was taking place in the top room of a block of new red-brick flats somewhere in a northern suburb of London—the exact situation I am not permitted to divulge.
From the window a very extensive view could be obtained over London, both south and east, where glowed the red haze of sunset upon the giant metropolis, with its landmarks of tall factory chimneys, church steeples, and long lines of slate roofs.
The room was a photographic studio. Indeed, the neat brass-plate upon the outer door of the flat bore the name “R. Goring, Photographer,” and as such, its owner was known to other tenants of the various suites, persons of the upper middle-class, men mostly occupying good positions in the City.
True, a whole-plate camera stood upon a stand in a corner, and there were one or two grey screens for backgrounds placed against the wall, but nothing else in the apartment showed that it was used for the purpose of photography. On the contrary, it contained a somewhat unusual apparatus, which two men present were closely examining.
Upon a strong deal table, set directly beneath the great skylight—which had been made to slide back so as to leave that portion of the roof open—was a great circular searchlight, such as is used upon ships, the glass face of which was turned upward to the sky.
Set in a circle around its face were a number of bright reflectors and prisms placed at certain angles, with, above them, a large brass ring across which white silk gauze was stretched so that the intense rays of the searchlight should be broken up, and not show as a beam in the darkness, and thus disclose its existence.
At a glance the cleverness of the arrangement was apparent. It was one of the enemy’s guiding lights for Zeppelins!
The owner of the flat, Mr. Goring, a burly, grey-haired man of fifty-five, was exhibiting with pride to his visitor a new set of glass prisms which he had that day set at the proper angle, while the man who was evincing such interest was the person who—only a few hours before—had worked in his mechanic’s overalls, at the Hendon Aerodrome, the man, Henry Knowles, who was to all intents and purposes an Englishman, having been in London since he was three years of age. Indeed, so well did he speak his Cockney dialect, that none ever dreamt that he was the son of one Heinrich Klitz, or that his Christian name was Hermann.
His host, like himself, was typically English, and had long ago paid his naturalisation fees and declared himself of the British bulldog breed. In public he was a fierce antagonist of Germany. In strongest terms he denounced the Kaiser and all his ways. He had even written to the newspapers deploring Great Britain’s mistakes, and, by all about him, was believed to be a fine, honest, and loyal Englishman. Even his wife, who now lived near Bristol, believed him to be British. Yet the truth was that he had no right to the name of Richard Goring, his baptismal name being Otto Kohler, his brother Hans occupying, at that moment, the post of President of the German Imperial Railways, the handsome offices of which are numbered 44, Linkstrasse, in Berlin.
The pair were members of the long-prepared secret enemy organisation in our midst—men living in London as British subjects, and each having his important part allotted to him to play at stated times and in pre-arranged places.
Richard Goring’s work for his country was to pose as a photographer—so that his undue use of electric-light current should not attract attention—and to keep that hidden searchlight burning night after night, in case a Zeppelin were fortunate enough to get as far as London.
As “Light-post No. 22” it was known to those cunning Teutons who so craftily established in England the most wonderful espionage system ever placed upon the world. In England there were a number of signallers and “light-posts” for the guidance of enemy aircraft, but this—one of the greatest intensity—was as a lighthouse, and marked as of first importance upon the aerial chart carried by every Zeppelin Commander.
Mr. Goring had shown and explained to his friend the improved mechanism of the light, whereupon Knowles—who now wore a smart blue serge suit and carried gloves in his hand—laughed merrily, and replied in English, for they always talked that language:
“I saw Gortz at Number Three last night. He has news from Berlin that the big air raid is to be made on the fourteenth.”
“The fourteenth!” echoed his friend. Then, after a second’s reflection, he added: “That will be Friday week.”
“Exactly. There will be one or two small attempts before—probably one to-night—a reconnaissance over the Eastern Counties. At least it was said so last night at Number Three,” he added, referring to a secret meeting place of the Huns in London.
“Well,” laughed the photographic artist. “I always keep the light going and, thanks to the plans they sent me from Wilhelmsplatz a month before the war, there is no beam of light to betray it.”
“Rather thanks to the information we have when the British scouting airships leave their sheds.”
“Ah, yes, my dear friend. Then I at once cut it off, of course,” laughed the other. “But it is a weary job—up here alone each night killing time by reading their silly newspapers.”
“One of our greatest dangers, in my opinion, is that young fellow Ronald Pryor—the aeroplane-builder,” declared Knowles. “The man whom our friend Reichardt tried to put out of existence last week, and failed—eh?”
“The same. He has a new aeroplane called ‘The Hornet,’ which can be rendered quite silent. That is a very great danger to our airships.”
“We must, at all hazards, ascertain its secret,” said his host promptly. “What does Reichardt say?”
“They were discussing it last night at Number Three.”
And then the man who called himself Knowles and who, by working as a humble mechanic at a flying school at Hendon, was able to pick up so many facts concerning our air service, explained how “The Hornet” was kept in secret somewhere out in Essex—at some spot which they had not yet discovered.