Beryl of the Biplane. William Le Queux
the table whereon lay the complicated apparatus of prisms, and reflectors which constituted the lighthouse to guide the enemy aircraft.
“That is the service upon which Number Seven has placed me,” was the response.
He had referred to the director of that branch of the enemy’s operations in England—the person known as “Number Seven”—the cleverly concealed secret agent who assisted to guide the invisible hand of Germany in our midst. The individual in question lived in strictest retirement, unknown even to those puppets of Berlin who so blindly obeyed his orders, and who received such lavish payment for so doing. Some of the Kaiser’s secret agents said that he lived in London; others declared that he lived on a farm in a remote village somewhere in Somerset; while others said he had been seen walking in Piccadilly with a well-known peeress. Many, on the other hand, declared that he lived in a small country town in the guise of a retired shopkeeper, interested only in his roses and his cucumber-frames.
“A pity our good friend Reichardt failed the other day,” remarked the man who posed as a photographer. “What of that girl Gaselee?”
“The next attempt will not fail, depend upon it,” was Knowles’ reply, in tones of confidence. “When Ronald Pryor dies, so will she also. The decision at Number Three last night was unanimous.” And he grinned evilly.
Then both men went forth, Goring carefully locking the door of the secret studio. Then, passing through the well-furnished flat, he closed the door behind him, and they descended the stairs.
That night just after eleven o’clock, Beryl in her warm air-woman’s kit, with her leather “grummet” with its ear-pieces buttoned beneath her chin, climbed into “The Hornet” and strapped herself into the observer’s seat.
Collins had been busy on the ’bus all the evening, testing the powerful dual engines, the searchlight, the control levers, and a dozen other details, including the all-important silencer. Afterwards he had placed in the long rack beneath the fusilage four high explosive spherical bombs, with three incendiary ones.
Therefore, when Ronnie hopped in, the machine was in complete readiness for a night flight.
Arranged at each corner of the big grass-field was a powerful electric light sunk into the ground and covered with glass. These could be switched on from the house supply and, by means of reflectors, gave splendid guidance for descent. At present, however, all was, of course, in darkness.
The night was windless and overcast, while the barometer showed the atmospheric pressure to be exactly that welcomed by Commanders of enemy airships.
Ronnie after switching on his little light over the instruments and examining his gauges, shouted to Collins:
“Righto! Let her rip!”
In a moment there was a terrific roar. The wind whistled about their ears, and next second they were “zumming,” up climbing at an angle of quite thirty degrees, instead of “taxi-running” the machine before leaving the ground.
Not a star showed, neither did a light. At that hour the good people of Essex were mostly in bed.
On their right, as they rose, Beryl noticed one or two red and green lights of railway signals, but these faded away as they still climbed ever up and up, travelling in the direction of the coast. The roar of the engines was deafening, until they approached a faintly seen cluster of lights which, by the map spread before him beneath the tiny light, Ronnie knew was the town of B——. Then he suddenly pulled a lever by which the noise instantly became so deadened that the whirr of the propeller alone was audible, the engines being entirely silenced.
The young man, speaking for the first time, exclaimed:
“We’ll first run along the coast and scout, and then turn back inland.”
Scarcely had he uttered those words when suddenly they became blinded by a strong searchlight from below.
“Hullo! Our anti-aircraft boys!” he ejaculated and at the same moment he pushed back the lever, causing the engines to roar again.
The men working the searchlight at once distinguished the tri-coloured rings upon the planes, and by its sudden silence and as sudden roar they knew it to be “The Hornet.” Therefore next second they shut off the beam of the light, and once again Ronnie silenced his ’bus.
It was then near midnight, and up there at ten thousand feet the wind was bitingly cold. Moreover there were one or two air currents which caused the machine to rock violently in a manner that would have alarmed any but those experienced in flying.
Beryl buttoned her collar still more snugly, but declared that she was not feeling cold. Below, little or nothing could be seen until, of a sudden, they ran into a thick cold mist, and then knew that they were over the sea.
With a glance at his luminous compass, the cheery young airman quickly turned the machine’s nose due south, and a quarter of an hour later altered his course south-west, heading towards London.
“Nothing doing to-night, it seems!” he remarked to his companion, as, in the darkness, they sped along at about fifty miles an hour, the wind whistling weirdly through the stays, the propeller humming musically, but the sound seeming no more than that of a bumblebee on a summer’s day.
It was certain that such sound could not be heard below.
After nearly an hour they realised by certain unmistakable signs—mostly atmospheric—that they were over the outer northern suburbs of London.
Then, as Ronnie altered his course, in the inky blackness of the night, both saw, deep below, an intense white light burning like a beacon, but throwing no ray.
“That’s curious!” remarked Pryor to the girl beside him. “I can’t make it out. I’ve seen it several times before. One night a month ago I saw it put out, and then, when one of our patrolling airships had gone over, it came suddenly up again.”
“An enemy light for the guiding of enemy Zeppelins—eh?” Beryl suggested.
“Exactly my opinion!” was her lover’s reply.
As he spoke they passed out of range of vision, all becoming dark again. Therefore, Ronnie put down his lever and turned the ’bus quickly so that he could again examine the mysterious light which would reveal to the enemy the district of London over which they were then flying.
For a full quarter of an hour “The Hornet,” having descended to about three thousand feet, manœuvred backwards and forwards, crossing and recrossing exactly over the intense white light below, Ronnie remaining silent, and flying the great biplane with most expert skill.
Suddenly, as he passed for the sixth time directly over the light, he touched a lever, and a quick swish of air followed.
In a moment the white light was blotted out by a fierce blood-red one.
No sound of any explosion was heard. But a second later bright flames leapt up high, and from where they sat aloft they could clearly distinguish that the upper story of the house was well alight.
Once again “The Hornet,” which had hovered over the spot, flying very slowly in a circle, swooped down in silence, for Pryor was eager to ascertain the result of his well-placed incendiary bomb.
As, in the darkness, they rapidly neared the earth, making no sound to attract those below, Beryl could see that in the streets, lit by the flames, people were running about like a swarm of ants. The alarm had already been given to the fire-brigade, for the faint sound of a fire-bell now reached their ears.
For five or six minutes Pryor remained in the vicinity watching the result of the bomb.
Beryl, strapped in, peered below, and then, placing her eye to the powerful night-glasses, she could discern distinctly two fire-engines tearing along to the scene of the conflagration.
Then with a laugh Ronnie pulled over the lever and, climbing high again, swiftly made off in the direction