GLORIES OF SEA
AND AIR SERIES
==============

By
PERCY F.
WESTERMAN

BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.

"THE FLAMING WRECKAGE WAS PLUNGING EARTHWARDS,
LEAVING A FIERY TRAIL IN ITS WAKE."

BILLY BARCROFT

R.N.A.S.

A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF

"A WATCH-DOG OF THE NORTH SEA"

"A SUB. OF THE R.N.R."

ETC. ETC.

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1

MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
First Published December, 1917
Reprinted 1928, 1929, 1930

CONTENTS

PREFACE

THE GREAT WAR OF 1914 opened the floodgates of hatred between the nations which took part and this stirring story, written when feelings were at their highest, conveys a true impression of the attitude adopted towards our enemies. No epithet was considered too strong for a German and whilst the narrative thus conveys the real atmosphere and conditions under which the tragic event was fought out it should be borne in mind that the animosities engendered by war are now happily a thing of the past, Therefore, the reader, whilst enjoying to the full this thrilling tale, will do well to remember that old enmities have passed away and that we are now reconciled to the Central Powers who were opposed to us.

BILLY BARCROFT R.N.A.S.

CHAPTER I

"YOUR BIRD!"

Two Bells of the First Dog Watch somewhere in the North Sea.

To be a little more definite it was bordering that part of the North Sea that merges into the narrow Straits of Dover and almost within range of the German shore batteries of Zeebrugge.

It was mid-October. The equinoctial gales had not yet arrived to convert the placid surface of the sea into a regular turmoil of short, broken waves. Hardly a ripple ruffled the long gentle undulations. Not a cloud obscured the sky. The slanting rays of the sun played uninterruptedly upon the sloping deck of H.M. Seaplane Carrier "Hippodrome" as she forged slowly ahead, surrounded by an escort of long, lean destroyers.

Her day's work was apparently over. The operations against the Zeebrugge defences—operations of almost a daily occurrence—had been carried out according to orders. The observation "kite" balloon had been hauled down and stowed in the "Hippodrome's" after-well; her brood of seaplanes had, save one, returned from their task of "spotting" for the guns of the monitors, and everything had been made snug for the run back to her base. She awaited only the reappearance of the stray "duckling" to increase speed for home waters.

"Billy's getting properly strafed, I fancy," remarked Flight-Lieutenant John Fuller as the distant growl of innumerable "antis" reverberated in the still air. "Wonder what the deuce he's doing? When we swung about over Position 445 he was heading almost due east."

"Billy won't suffer from cold feet," rejoined his companion—"a regular glutton for work. Give him a chance for a stunt (bombing raid) and he's all there. For a mere youngster, I say, he's——"

Further remarks concerning the rashness of Billy—otherwise Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft—were postponed by the appearance of yet another member of the "Hippodrome's" flying-officers.

"Young Barcroft's just tick-tocked through," he announced. "He's on his way back. Cool cheek, by Jove! Keeping the crowd of us waiting while he's joy-riding somewhere in the direction of Berlin. Wonder how far he went?"

From where they stood, just abaft the starboard funnel-casing, the officers scanned the horizon. The "Hippodrome," like most of her sisters, had at one time been a liner, but the building up of a launching-platform for seaplanes had resulted in considerable alterations to her external and internal appearance. Amongst other things she now had two funnels abreast and far apart in place of her original foremost one, in order to give full scope to the inclined plane that extended from her bows to within a few feet of the navigation bridge—a piece of new construction perched at least 150 feet further aft than the old bridge and chart-room of pre-war days.

The clank of a steam winch and the swinging overhead of a long steel derrick announced the fact that preparations were being made to welcome home the "stray bird." Although a seaplane could be launched with ease from the sloping platform, on her return she would have to alight in the water and "taxi" alongside her parent ship. Hence the necessity for a long and powerful derrick to swing the seaplane, with its broad expanse of wings, clear of the ship's side and deposit it carefully upon deck.

"Here he comes!" exclaimed Fuller, indicating a faint object in the eastern sky.

Rapidly it resolved itself into a large biplane with triple floats in place of the three landing wheels that form a necessary adjunct to army aeroplanes. Then the polished wood propeller, glinting in the oblique rays of the sun, could be discerned as it slowed down preparatory to the seaplane commencing a thousand feet glide.

With a succession of splashes the biplane took the water, "bringing up" with admirable judgment at a distance of less than fifty yards from the starboard quarter of the parent ship.

The seaplane carried a crew of two. The pilot pushing up a pair of goggles revealed a fresh-looking, clean-cut face that gave one the impression of a public school boy. Billy Barcroft was still in his teens. He had just another month to enter into his twentieth year. In height he was a fraction under five feet ten inches; weight—an important consideration from an airman's point of view—was "ten seven." Supple and active, he carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Standing up and lightly grasping a stay, he swayed naturally to the slight lift of the seaplane—the personification of that product of the Twentieth Century, the airman.

His companion, who had just completed the "winding in" of the trailing aerial, raised his head above the coaming surrounding the observer's seat. In appearance he resembled Barcroft so strongly-that the pair might have been taken for twin-brothers. But no relationship, save the ties of friendship and duty, existed betwixt Billy Barcroft and his observer, Bobby Kirkwood. The latter was an Assistant Paymaster, who, deserting the ship's office for the freedom of the air, had already mastered the intricacies of "wireless" and other qualifications necessary for the responsible duties of observer.

"You've been a jolly long time, you belated bird!" shouted Fuller in mock reproof. "What's the stunt?"

"Couldn't help it," replied Barcroft with a broad grin. "If you were in my place and saw a crowd of Hun Staff officers pushing along in motor-cars wouldn't your idea of courtesy lead you to pay them a little attention? Kirkwood gave 'em a couple of plums and a whole drum. Result—a slight increase in the Hun death-rate."

Barcroft had, in fact, gone well inland over the German batteries, on a sort of informal joy-ride. From a height of 5,000 feet the observer had spotted what appeared to be a motor convoy bowling along the road between Zeebrugge and Bruges. With a daring bordering on recklessness the pilot had vol-planed down to within two hundred feet, greatly to the consternation of the grey-cloaked German Staff officers, who, leaving the shelter of their steelroofed cars, scurried with loss of dignity for the safety that was denied most of them. For with admirable precision Kirkwood had dropped two bombs fairly into the line of cars, following up the attack by firing a whole drum of ammunition from the Lewis gun into the fleeing Huns.

Deftly the flexible steel wire from the outswung derrick engaged the lifting hooks of the seaplane. The machine was just clear of the water when the order came "Avast heaving." Simultaneously a bugle blared. It was the call for Flying Officers.

Leaping into the stern sheets of a boat in attendance, Barcroft and Kirkwood were taken to the side of the "Hippodrome," where they gained the deck of the ship. Already Fuller and the rest of the airmen had gone aft. Something was literally in the air.

The signal commander held up a leaf torn from a signal pad.

"A wireless has just come through," he announced in clear deliberate tones. "A hostile plane has made a raid over parts of Kent. She is now on her way back, apparently heading for Ostend. Machines from Eastchurch have started in pursuit, but the Hun has a useful lead. Now, gentlemen, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse: we are between the raider and his base."

The assembly dispersed like magic, the airmen hurriedly donning leather jackets and flying helmets and giving peremptory orders to the mechanics in attendance. In less than five minutes the first of the stowed seaplanes was ready to glide down the inclined platform to take to flight.

Yet, from a starting point of view Barcroft had a decided advantage. His seaplane was practically ready. There was enough petrol for a lengthy flight, and a good reserve of ammunition for the Lewis gun. Bombs there were none, nor were any likely to be required for the task in hand. The chances of a hit on a small and rapidly-moving target were very remote. It was by machine-gun fire that the attack upon the returning raider was to be made.

With the motor throbbing noisily and with clouds of oil-smelling smoke pouring from her exhaust, Barcroft's seaplane taxied away from the towering side of her ungainly parent. Then, so gracefully that it was impossible to determine the exact moment when the aircraft ceased to be waterborne, the seaplane rose swiftly and steadily in the air.

Climbing in steep spirals the machine quickly rose to a height of 5,000 feet. It was enough for all practical purposes, allowing a margin of superior altitude to that of the expected Boche.

"Good enough!" shouted the flight-sub through the speaking tube. "Aerials paid out? All ready?"

"All serene," replied Kirkwood, affixing a whole drum of ammunition to the upper side of the breech mechanism of the deadly machine gun. "By Jove, we've all been pretty slick this time. The fifth bird has just got away."

Barcroft leant over the side of the fuselage. Seven hundred feet below and speeding away to the nor'-west were a couple of the "Hippodrome's" seaplanes. Two more, at a lower altitude but still climbing, were heading in a south-easterly direction. Thus, when the formation was complete, Barcroft's machine would be in the centre of a far-flung line thrown out to form a barrier betwixt the solitary raider and his base.

The British airmen were at an atmospheric disadvantage. Straight in their face came the rays of the setting sun, while the calm sea beneath them was one blaze of reflected light. Against that blinding glare it was almost impossible to distinguish the mere black dot in the vast aerial expanse that represented the returning hostile aviator; while on the other hand the Hun, with the sun at his back, would be able to discern with comparative ease the glint of the seaplane's wings.

The characteristic tick of the wireless brought. Kirkwood to attention. With the receiver clamped to his ear he took down the message and passed it on to his companion.

"Our pigeon!" soliloquised Barcroft grimly. The information was to the effect that the "Hippodrome" had first sighted the approaching Hun machine by means of telescopes. The hostile craft had previously spotted two of the intercepting seaplanes, and her pilot, taking advantage of the light, decided to make a vol-plane to within a few hundred feet above the level of the sea. By so doing he was sacrificing his advantage of altitude, but there was a chance of slipping unobserved under the British aircraft. Once through the far-flung cordon he hoped to rely upon superior speed and climbing powers to elude pursuit.

By this time Barcroft had "picked up" his opponent. At first sight it seemed as if the Hun were executing a nose dive. Keenly on the alert the flight-sub depressed the ailerons with a quick yet decided movement. There was no trace of jerkiness in the pilot's actions. All were performed with that smooth dexterity and rapidity that comprised the essential qualifications of a successful airman.

At an aggregate speed of nearly two hundred miles an hour the rival aeroplanes converged. It seemed as if each pilot were bent upon ramming his opponent and sending the colliding craft to a common destruction.

Barcroft, his hands resting lightly on the "joy-stick," was keenly alert to every forthcoming move of his adversary. Already the Hun observer was letting off rounds from his machine-gun in the vain hope that some of the hail of bullets would disable the British seaplane. On his part Kirkwood "stood by," ready at the first favourable opportunity to let the Hun have a taste of the Lewis gun—and the opportunity was not yet.

Suddenly the German monoplane straightened out, then, lifting, attempted to pass above the seaplane. Quick as a flash Barcroft grasped the situation. Round swung the British machine, though not before a dozen holes had been ripped in her wings, as, banking steeply, she presented a vast spread of canvas to the hostile machine-gun.

Through the turning movement of his opponent the Hun had gained nearly three hundred yards. The observer, swinging his gun aft, was busily engaged in fitting a new belt of ammunition.

It was now Kirkwood's chance. The hostile monoplane was still within easy range, although momentarily her superior speed was taking her further and further away from her pursuer. She had broken through the cordon. Ahead was a straight, unimpeded run for home.

The Lewis gun began to splutter. Half—three-quarters of the drum of ammunition was expended without tangible result. The Hun observer, too, had got his machine-gun in working order and was pumping out nickel at the rate of five hundred rounds a minute.

It was a duel to the death. At that dizzy height no human being could fall and reach the surface of the sea alive. No cover, no sheltering trenches protected the four combatants. In the blue vault of heaven they were compelled to kill or be killed, or even deal out complete and horrifying destruction to each other.

"Got him, by Jove!" shouted Kirkwood, as the Hun at the machine-gun threw up his arms and toppled inertly across the barrel of the weapon. For perhaps ten seconds he hung thus, till the monoplane, rocking through an air-pocket, tilted violently. For a brief instant the body trembled in the balance, then slipping sideways the dead Boche toppled over the edge of the fuselage and fell like a stone through space.

"Keep it up, you're on it!" yelled Barcroft, never for a moment taking his eyes off the fugitive monoplane.

His observer heard the shout but the words were unintelligible in the deafening rush of air Nevertheless he maintained a steady fire at the enemy machine.

To give the Hun pilot his due he made no attempt to throw up the sponge. He might have made a nose-dive, trusting to flatten out' and gain the surface of the water. The machine would have sunk like a stone, but there was a faint chance of the pilot being able to unbuckle the strap that held him to the seat and make an attempt to save himself by swimming.

The Hun did unfasten the leather strap, but for a different purpose. The monoplane, being of a self-steering type, could be relied upon to continue her flight more or less in a straight line, without a controlling touch on the rudderbar.

With a stealthy, cat-like movement the German made his way to the observer's seat, and gripping the firing mechanism of the machine gun prepared to return the dangerous greetings from his pursuer.

Less than fifteen miles off—twelve minutes flight—lay the flat outlines of the Belgian coast. Unless Fritz could be brought down rapidly the raider would win through.

Suddenly the monoplane tilted and settled down to a dizzy nose-dive. Whether a vital part had been hit or whether the uncontrollable drop was due to faulty construction neither Barcroft nor his companion knew. For the moment the flight-sub imagined that it was a daring ruse on the part of the Hun pilot, until he realised that the latter was in the observer's seat when the catastrophe occurred.

Down plunged the vanquished monoplane, spirally, erratically. The pilot was clinging desperately to the machine-gun. Even as the 'plane dashed through space the weapon, under the pressure of the Hun's hand, was aimlessly spitting out bullets.

Again the wireless ticked off a message. It was from another seaplane that, although far away in the original cordon, had swung round and joined in the pursuit. Kirkwood's eyes twinkled as he deciphered the dots and dashes: "Congrats: your bird!"

CHAPTER II

A PRICE ON HIS HEAD

FLIGHT SUB-LIEUTENANT BARCROFT scanned the expanse of water beneath him. The "Hippodrome" was now a mere speck far away to the west'ard. Four distinct trails of smoke betokened the fact that British destroyers were pelting to the scene of the seaplane's victory.

On all other points of the compass the surface of the sea was deserted.

"Wind up!" exclaimed Barcroft, using the speaking-tube for the first time since the opening of the duel. "I'm going to have a look at our bag."

The A.P. began to reel in the trailing length of wireless aerial, while the pilot, shutting off the motor, began a spiral volplane towards the surface of the water. His "opposite number"—the seaplane that had tendered her congratulations—was also gliding down towards the spot where the Hun aeroplane had struck the surface. Barcroft recognised her pilot as Lieutenant John Fuller.

The white patch of foam that had been created by the terrific impact of the wrecked machine had already vanished, but a series of everdiverging concentric circles of iridescent oil marked the spot. The monoplane had sunk like a stone.

"No use going any lower," announced the Flight-sub, as he prepared to restart the engine.

"Hold hard!" exclaimed the observer. "There's something floating. I believe, by smoke! it's the Boche pilot."

"That alters the case, then," decided Barcroft. "We'll investigate still further."

The Hun showed no signs of life. Kept up by his inflated jacket he floated on his back, his legs and arms trailing listlessly and his wide open eyes staring vacantly into the element through which a few minutes previously he had been flying for his life.

The British seaplane alighted within a stone's throw of the corpse. Gravely both pilot and observer saluted the vanquished. Whether he deserved the honour or not the victors did not pause to consider. He might have been the cause of the deaths of a score or more inoffensive civilians—women and children perhaps; but death wipes out old scores. Barcroft and his companion merely recognised the dead airman as an opponent worthy of their steel, and as such he was entitled to the homage that one brave man pays to another. Of his past record they knew nothing. Their tribute was the spontaneous acknowledgment of a well-contested fight.

Slowly the seaplane taxied until one of the floats was within a foot or so of the Hun airman's corpse. Agilely Kirkwood swung himself over the side of the fuselage and swarmed down one of the supporting struts to the broad float.

"Ugh!" he soliloquised. "The fellow's grinning at me."

Securing the body the A.P. deftly opened the leather jacket. From the inner breast pocket he withdrew a bulky pocket-book, a map and an envelope, sealed and addressed and enclosed in oiled silk. Further search produced a gunmetal watch. On the lid was inscribed in High German characters: "War substitute in lieu of gold watch patriotically surrendered by Unter-leutnant E. von Bülow und Helferich." A purse completed the list of articles found on the body.

"Buck up!" exclaimed Barcroft. "It will be dark in another twenty minutes."

Thus abjured Kirkwood opened the valve of the dead airman's inflated jacket. Slowly the corpse sank beneath the surface to find a temporary resting-place on the bed of the North Sea. Night had fallen by the time the seaplanes had returned to their parent ship and had been safely housed. The "Hippodrome," steaming with screened lights and escorted by the vigilant destroyers, resumed her belated run for home waters.

Barcroft and Kirkwood, in the large and well-lighted wardroom, were examining the "effects" of their victim, while a crowd of flying-officers stood round to watch the proceedings.

The A.P. had separated the Hun's personal belongings and was making them up into a parcel, to be sealed and delivered to the dead aviator's relatives when opportunity occurred. It was a point of etiquette faithfully carried out by the airmen of both sides whenever circumstances made it possible.

Barcroft was studiously scanning the documents that were not of a personal nature. The map was a German production, and comprised a large scale area of Kent. Probably it was based upon the British Ordnance Survey, supplemented by details gathered by the swarm of Hun spies who more or less openly infested the length and breadth of the British Isles, prior to the memorable month of August 1914. Yet there was clear evidence of the map being brought up to date, recently-erected munition factories and other places of military importance being faithfully recorded. The margin was embellished with photographic reproductions of views of conspicuous landmarks taken from a considerable altitude.

"Jolly rummy how these Boche birds get hold of these views," commented Fuller. "I swear they didn't take them unless they've been running daylight trips in noiseless and practically invisible 'planes. It's their strafed organisation that is so wonderful. Knock holes in that and it's all up with Hunland. Hullo, Billy, what's the excitement?"

Barcroft, holding up a paper he had taken from the pocket-book, was studying it with the deepest interest, while his face was dimpled with lines of suppressed laughter.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Won't the governor be bucked? Listen to this, you fellows. I'll have to go slow, as some of the tongue-splitting words take a bit of translating:

"'It is my Royal and Imperial command that steps be taken to secure the person of the Englishman Peter Barcroft, residing at Rivers dale House, near Alderdene, in the county of Kent, the said Peter Barcroft having published or caused to be published books that—that—(can't quite make out what's Schriftsteller? Ah! I have it) of which he is the author, the same books treating Us with libellous contempt. To the good German who succeeds in producing the said Peter Barcroft alive on German soil will be paid the reward of twenty thousand marks. In the event of the said Peter Barcroft being slain by the act of one of my subjects the reward will be ten thousand marks.—Wilhelm, I.R.'"

"So that's what Unter-leutnant E. von Bülow und Helferich was on the stunt for," remarked Fuller. "Yes, by smoke! there's a red circle drawn round the village of Alderdene. Billy, my festive, your pater will have to look out for himself."

"Perhaps the Hun has already wiped Riversdale House out of existence," said Barcroft with a hearty laugh.

His brother officers looked at him in astonishment. His levity, at the possibility of his parent's annihilation by a few hundred pounds of high explosive, seemed altogether out of place.

"Steady, old man," exclaimed Tarleton, the senior "flight-luff."

"Can't help it," continued Barcroft, vainly endeavouring to suppress his mirth. "Fancy a Boche going all that way on a fruitless errand, even supposing he did drop a plum within half a mile of the house. The governor vacated the show last quarter-day, and it's still empty. There isn't another house within a couple of miles of it, and it belongs to a regular pig of a lawyer-josser who's at loggerheads with everybody. Let's hope, if the house is pulverised, that it isn't insured against hostile aircraft. I'm not vindictive, but it would serve the bounder right."

"Where's your governor now?" enquired Fuller.

"Eh? Entering for the Kaiser's Stakes, old man? Well, here's a clue. He's moved to Tarleigh, a little show somewhere in Lancashire. About six or seven miles from Barborough, I believe, and the same distance from anywhere else. At any rate, I'm off there directly I get my leave. By Jove, won't the old man feel honoured!—a price set on his head by Irresponsible Bill. He'll feel as proud as Punch. By the bye—don't all speak at once—who's pinched my matches?"

CHAPTER III

CONCERNING PETER BARCROFT

"AND Billy arrives by the ten-fifty. No, I don't think I'll wait here for three hours and then stand a chance of missing him. I'll get back home and give him a fitting welcome to the new house."

Thus meditated Peter Barcroft as he paced up and down the crowded up-platform of Barborough Station. He had studied with varying emotions a poster depicting a flabby, pigeon-toed child with one hand over that part of the human form known to infants as a "tummy" and supposed to be ejaculating, "I feel so jolly here." Even that mild excitement paled, and Mr. Barcroft pined for the congenial warmth of his study. The platform was cold and draughty, offering no inducements to linger for the arrival of the sure-to-be belated "ten-fifty."

Peter Barcroft was a thick-set man of fortyfive. In height he was a good two inches shorter than his airman son. He was clean shaven. Had he removed his Norfolk cap it might have been noticed that his iron-grey hair showed thin on his temples and was conspicuously absent on the top of his head. His forehead was high, and in conjunction with two vertical wrinkles extending upwards from the inner ends of his eyebrows, gave the appearance of a deep thinker. Otherwise there was little about him to give one the idea that he was engaged in literary pursuits. According to popular notions he ought to be wearing shabby clothes of eccentric, out-of-date cut; he should affect a weird type of soft collar and a flowing tie; his hair ought to be long and wavy. But Peter Barcroft had none of these qualifications. To judge him by appearances he was just an ordinary middle-aged man of powerful physique and retaining many of the qualities of a bygone athletic age.

He had been living only a fortnight in Lancashire. Why he migrated from Kent was a mystery to the friends he had left behind. Perhaps he did not know himself, unless it was surrender to a sudden, almost eccentric desire for pastures new.

Up to a certain point he possessed the artistic temperament. He worked only when it suited him, and generally seized every plausible excuse to "knock off." Yet, when he did settle to his task he wrote at a tremendous rate, and so vilely that often he was quite unable to decipher his own caligraphy. In financial matters he was as careless as a man could possibly be. Rarely he knew the state of his current account. Trivial matters in everyday life would send him into a towering rage, while the loss of a couple of hundred pounds hardly troubled him in the least degree. He would ransack the house to find a favourite pipe which he had mislaid, or waste half a day searching in vain for a certain pen which he felt sure he had left in such-and-such a place. On the other hand, when a valuable and almost new overcoat was stolen from the hall he just shrugged his shoulders and soon forgot all about it.

During the fortnight he had been the tenant of Ladybird Fold, Peter Barcroft had either "sacked" or had been "sacked" by three housemaids and two cooks, to the consternation and despair of his wife. The servant problem, probably more acute in the manufacturing district of Lancashire than anywhere else in the kingdom, was in this case rendered even more difficult by Peter's display of irritation at the manifold but trivial delinquencies of his staff of menials.

Mrs. Barcroft had gone on a visit to a relative in Cheshire on the strength of a vague report that there was a girl who might be willing to take the vacant place of housemaid at Ladybird Fold-His wife's absence for two days had given Peter the excuse to "knock off." It was one of his avowed peculiarities that he could not write a stroke unless his wife were with him in the study. So Mr. Barcroft had gone for a jaunt in his light car.

After the splendidly-surfaced gravelled or tarmac roads of Kent the greasy granite setts and bumpy slag roads of the north came as an unpleasant surprise to the easy-going Peter. A couple of punctures in addition to a slight collision with a "lurry"—a type of vehicle hitherto known to him as a lorry—did not improve his peace of mind, while what ought to have been the climax to a day of mishaps was the sudden failure of the magneto at a desolate spot on the western slope of the Pennine Hills.

But unruffled Peter pushed the car on to the side of the road and tramped stolidly into the nearest village—a good three miles. Here, in an interview with the decrepit motor-engineer (Barcroft guessed rightly that he was too passé even for munition making), he learnt that at least a month must elapse before the magneto could be re-wired. He received the intelligence with equanimity, for in his pocket was a telegram to the effect that Billy was coming home that night. Nothing else mattered.

"Which is the Tarleigh train?" enquired Mr. Barcroft of a porter.

"Next one in on this side," replied the man gruffly.

Half a minute later the train rumbled into the station. Mr. Barcroft, realising that up to the present he had not mastered the intricate system of train-service of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, and having had many previous experiences of being misinformed by surly servants of the various railway companies, addressed himself to a passenger who was about to enter a carriage.

"Tarleigh? Yes, you're quite right. At any rate, I'm for Blackberry Cross."

"Thank you," replied Peter.

"Motorist?" enquired the other laconically. "Yes; had a breakdown."

The ice was broken. The studied, almost taciturn reserve of the typical level-headed Lancashire man was not proof against the claims of motoring. Before the train glided out of the station the two passengers were deep in the subject of cars and their peculiarities.

"Dash it all! we seem a long time getting to Two Elms," remarked the stranger.

He drew aside the blind and peered into the darkness. At that moment the train rumbled under a broad bridge.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "We're already half way between Blackberry Cross and Tarleigh. We must have taken the wrong train: it's a non-stop to Windyhill."

"Don't mention it," rejoined Peter affably. "I'm quite enjoying your society. An hour or so won't make very much difference provided I can get home before eleven. I hope you won't be inconvenienced?"

The stranger laughed.

"I'm secretary of the Tarleigh and Blackberry Cross Golf Club," he explained. "Entwistle—Philip Entwistle—is my name. By profession I am what is commonly known as a vet. It's our Annual General Meeting, and I'm due there at eight."

"'Fraid it will have to stop at the due," said Mr. Barcroft grimly. "It's 7.30 already."

"You'll be all right," continued Entwistle. "There's a train back from Windyhill at 10.5, You're a stranger to the district?"

"Fairly so," admitted Peter. "I've take Ladybird Fold for three years."

"Your name doesn't happen to be Norton—Andrew Norton?"

"No," was the reply. "Barcroft's my name. I know Norton. He's a newcomer. Only been here a week, I believe; and in that time he's frozen on to me. Kind of companionship in a strange land, so to speak. He seems a very decent sort; in fact, I rather like him. He's my nearest neighbour and he lives at least half a mile from Ladybird Fold."

"What is he?" asked Entwistle. "Independent?"

"So I should imagine. He has plenty of time on his hands, and spends a good part of it with me, except when I have to choke him off. He'll be sitting in my study when I get home, for a dead cert. Already he's made it a practice of looking me up at ten o'clock of an evening, after I've knocked off. You see," he added apologetically. "I have to work."

"At what?" enquired his companion, the Lancashire thirst for knowledge ever in the foreground.

"I am a professional liar," announced Peter with mock gravity.

"A what? Oh, I suppose you mean that you're a lawyer?"

"Heaven forbid!" protested Mr. Barcroft piously. "You misunderstand me. I am a novelist. Modesty forbids me to give you my nom de Plume. At present, however, I am engaged upon a book of a technical character dealing with the conduct of the war. Perhaps some of my theories will be a bit startling when pushed on to the British Public, but they'll be vindicated."

"Hang it all!" exclaimed Entwistle. "I have heard of you already."

"Have you really?" enquired Peter. Professional vanity—although he was not afflicted with "swollen head"—made him perhaps justifiably keen on hearing outside opinions of his literary efforts.

"Yes," continued his companion. "It was the Vicar of Tarleigh. He was in Wheatcroft's place—down the bottom of Blackberry Hill and while he was talking to the old man a car came along driven by you. In it were two sheep dogs barking like fury. I think I am right in the description?"

Peter nodded appreciatingly.

"Says the vicar, 'And what might that terrific disturbance mean?' 'Eh, parson,' replied Old Wheatcroft, 'tis but that there novel-writing chap as lives in Ladybird Fold.' So you see they've got you posted up all right. But here we are," he continued, as the train came to a standstill. "It's a jolly draughty station to hang about."

"It is," admitted Barcroft. "But fortunately there's very little wind. A proper Zeppelin night."

"Suppose so," admitted Entwistle. "You see, we don't worry very much about those gentry. Now, in Yorkshire, for instance, it would be otherwise, but we are on the right side of the Pennines. I don't for one moment think that a Zep. will ever get so far as this."

Peter shrugged his shoulders. On that matter, he preferred to maintain silence.

Up and down the bleak platform the two men paced until Entwistle, glancing at his watch in the feeble glimmer of a shaded lamp, exclaimed—"Twenty-five to eleven. Bless my soul, the time has gone quickly. That confounded train is late."

Before Barcroft could offer any remark the platform lights were turned off. Simultaneously, the electric signal lamps ceased to give forth their red and green warning.

"What's up?" demanded Entwistle. "Failure of the gas works and the Company's electric light station?"

"Hanged if I know," declared Peter. "It strikes me very forcibly that we'll have to walk those seven miles. I suppose it means twelve for you? A taxi, or even a humble four-wheeler is an impossibility in this forsaken hole."

A man, stumbling across the rails in the darkness, clambered upon the platform within a yard of the two would-be passengers.

"Sorry, sir," he muttered apologetically.

"What's all this about?" enquired Entwistle. "Why have the lights gone out? Are there no more trains to-night?"

"No, sir, no more trains yet awhile," replied the porter, for such he was. "They've just got a warning through. Them swine of Zeps. is somewheres about."

CHAPTER IV

WHEN THE ZEPPELIN WAS OUT

"WE'LL have to foot it, man," declared Entwistle decidedly. "Unless we can get a car to pick us up on the road. Zeppelins, by smoke! Whoever would have thought it? I didn't; not this side of the Pennines."

"So I believe you said," replied Peter Barcroft, as the two men swung down the inclined approach to the station and gained the setts of the dingy street. "Still, they may be miles away. These official warnings are the pattern of eccentricity. You know the road?"

"Yes fortunately Dash it all! I don't mind the excitement. It's my wife I'm thinking about, if they should come to Barborough. Ever seen a Zep., Barcroft?"

"Several," replied Peter. "They are fairly common objects down in Kent. Get quite accustomed to them. Latterly I have slept soundly, in spite of the noise of the engines. Of course they didn't drop any bombs in that particular district. In point of fact they eventually dumped their dangerous cargo into some fields a few miles from anywhere. Our lighting restrictions are far more stringent than they are up here. Barborough is a blaze of light compared, say, with Tangtable or Cobley, the nearest large towns to Alderdene, where I used to live."

"You used to sleep through it," repeated Mr. Entwistle. "That reminds me. I noticed that when we were walking up and down the platform just now you invariably got round to my left as we turned. Are you deaf in one ear?"

"Yes," replied Peter. "Stone deaf in my left. A really valuable asset when one has to be in the presence of bores, or enduring curtain lectures and the like."

"Then we may congratulate ourselves," was his companion's response. "I, too, am deaf, only in my right ear. When I was at school at Scarborough a brute of a master hiked me up by my ears. Result, deafness in one of them. Yes, I agree, it's very convenient at times."

By now they had breasted the steep rise out of Windyhill and had gained the bleak summit of the lofty ridge. In ordinary circumstances would be seen the twinkling lights from scores of factories—"works" as these are termed locally—in the five distinct valleys that radiate from this particular spur. All was now in utter darkness, save for a feeble glimmer from an isolated signal-box at the entrance to a deep cutting.

"That chap's looking for trouble," declared Barcroft, indicating the dim patch of luminosity. "They would spot that for a distance of ten miles. I say, isn't the atmosphere clear for this part of the country, and in autumn, too. It's the first absolutely fine night I have seen since I've lived here—ideal for Zeps., too. No wind to speak of and pitch dark. Listen."

The two men stopped abruptly. Above the faint rumble of the evening breeze could be distinguished a subdued and distinct hum.

"That's the brute," declared Peter. "It's a Zep, sure enough."

"Certain?" asked Entwistle anxiously.

"Rather—and it's coming this way."

In silence the two pedestrians waited. Nearer and nearer came the now increasing buzzing of the engines of the immense gas-bag. Vainly they attempted to detect the elongated airship. With heads thrown back they strove to pierce the black vault above. The "thing" was there, but it was invisible from where they stood. Only by the sinister sounds did they know of its presence. Then with the same rapidity as the unseen had approached the whirr grew fainter and fainter until it was heard no longer.

"Phew!" ejaculated Entwistle, mopping his forehead. "I'm not of a funky nature, but, by Jove! I'm glad that beastly thing's gone. It gives a fellow a peculiar sensation somewhere in the region of the stomach. What's the time?"

"About eleven, I should imagine," replied Barcroft. "I won't strike a match. Well, I suppose the Zep. has missed Barborough by this time—unless she's slowed down and circling over the town," he added in an undertone.

They were descending into one of the numerous valleys that lay betwixt them and Tarleigh. The effluvium of a neighbouring bleaching works was wafted to their nostrils.

"Rufford's Works," explained Entwistle. "Lucky that Zep didn't drop a bomb. There are hundreds of gallons of benzine stored there.... Yes, I fancy it's all right as far as Barborough is concerned. Wish a car would overtake us. Notwithstanding the fine night I don't feel particularly keen for a long tramp."

"Let me give you a shakedown at Ladybird Fold," suggested Peter. "You can telephone through to Barborough and let your wife know where you are."

"No, no, my dear fellow," protested Entwistle. "It's imposing on your good nature. Besides, you mentioned that your son was coming home on leave."

"Yes," said Mr. Barcroft. "Wonder if he's arrived yet, or is held up at some out-of-the-way railway station or in a tunnel. That won't make any difference. If it did I shouldn't have mentioned the matter. I can be as confoundedly blunt as you Lancashire people when I want."

"So I believe," rejoined Entwistle tersely. "Well, I'll accept your offer with pleasure. Now for the next hill. It's a regular brute, even for this part of the world. When a fellow is past forty he's not so good at this sort of work as he was. One has to admit the fact however much one tries to stifle the discovery. I used to pride myself on being a runner, and it came as a nasty shock when my fifteen-year-old son beat me in a 440 sprint—not by so very much, though," he added in defence of his bygone prowess.

"The third milestone," announced Peter pointing to a weatherbeaten slab just visible in the gloom.

"Yes, and the highest part of the road," added Entwistle. "It is about——".

He stopped abruptly. Away to the southward a vivid flash illuminated the sky, followed by three more in quick succession. Summer lightning would pale into insignificance compared with the intensity of those momentary sheets of lurid light.

"Good heavens—Barborough!" ejaculated the vet.

Barcroft made no remark. Failing his inability to read the face of his watch he placed the fingers of his right hand on his left wrist and carefully counted the pulse beats.

"Forty-five!" he announced calmly as the first of four loud detonations rent the air.

Crash—crash—crash—crash. It was as if he had been inside a tin bath and some one was belabouring it with a wooden mallet. Even allowing for the distance of the source of the sound the din was terrible.

A minute later came two more flashes, almost simultaneously, with forty-eight beats before the reports. Then one solitary flash followed by an even greater interval ere the detonation was heard.

"The brutes!" muttered Entwistle.

Again Peter made no audible comment. He was making a rapid mental calculation. Seventy pulsations to a minute: sound travels at roughly 365 yards to a second. Yes, that placed the scene of the raid at a distance of nine miles, and judging by the direction it was that populous town that had been the target for the missiles of the Zeppelin.

"She's gone, at any rate," he said.

"Yes, but goodness only knows what damage she's done in that minute and a half," added Entwistle. "What's more we're between her and that cursed Germany. Come on, man, let's hasten."

It was half-past twelve as the two pedestrians made their way through the village of Scatterbeck. Almost the whole of the population was astir, discussing in the shrill rapid Lancashire dialect the totally unexpected visit of the aerial raider. Thrice enquiries on the part of Barcroft and his companion brought the disconcerting information that no vehicle of any description was available. There was nothing for it but to continue their long tramp.

At length the summit of Tarleigh Hill was surmounted. Here they encountered a belated wayfarer—a watchman from the neighbouring works.

"Eh, maäster," he replied to an anxious question. "I'm thinkin' 'tes Barborough right enow. Seed 'em drop mysen, an' agen ower Percombe way. Eh, but there'll be a rush to t' recruitin' office after this. Lancashire's done main well in sojerin', but this'll cap everythin'. This night's work'll cost that there Kayser summat when the Barborough lads in t' trenches get to know o' it."

"That fellow's right," commented Mr. Barcroft after the watchman had taken a by-road. "These Zeps, do very little military damage. They don't intimidate or terrify the people, except, perhaps, those in the actual district raided. The German bombs are like the dragon's teeth of mythology; sown, they spring up as British soldiers, eager to avenge themselves upon the Kaiser's troops. If I had my way I'd run cheap excursions to the raided areas from Bristol, Exeter and other towns as yet not troubled with the Zeps. to let the people see the damage done to British homes. That would stir their imaginations and let 'em think strongly. Instead, all details of raids are kept, or are endeavoured to be kept, a profound secret by our wiseacres in authority. The report of the damage done is minimised—not that I would suggest making the news public as far as buildings of military importance are concerned—and the result is that the phlegmatic Briton who is not directly affected by the raid merely reads the bald newspaper account, mentally consigns the Government to perdition and forgets all about it."

"According to that American lecturer, Curtin, they do things better in France," added Entwistle. "The French allow full descriptions of the Zeppelin raids in their country to be published, and the result is discouraging to the Huns. At the time we were referring to these raids taking place in the 'eastern counties,' when the Germans knew exactly where they had been. I shouldn't wonder if this night's affair is described as taking place on the East Coast or the South Midlands instead of within sight of the Irish Sea."

"And yet nothing did more to depress the Germans than the humorous and true accounts of the Zep, raids that were eventually allowed to appear in the British newspapers."

"Except when we do bag half a dozen of them at one swoop," added the vet. "Mark my words, we'll get our own back with interest."

"What's the matter?" asked Peter, noticing that his companion had reduced his pace and was limping slightly.

"Galled heel, worse luck," replied the vet. Even in the darkness Barcroft could discern his face twitching. "But it's nothing. I'll stick it."

"Look here," declared Barcroft authoritatively. There were times when the easy-going Peter could make himself obeyed. "It's all jolly rot your carrying on. You'll be lame in another mile. You must stick to the original programme, and stop at my place. What's happened at Barborough has happened, and your presence there to-night won't mend matters. Besides, there's the telephone."

Entwistle capitulated. In fact he was in great pain. The injury to his foot was more than he cared to admit. Not only was his heel badly chafed, but he had twisted his ankle on a loose stone.

"All right," he replied. "But suppose I can't get through on the 'phone?"

"You will," said Barcroft confidently. "Now: hang on to my arm. It's only a couple of hundred yards up the hill."

The last two hundred yards was a pilgrimage of pain. The approach was along a narrow lane paved with irregular slabs and enshrouded: with trees that threw the path into even greater gloom than the high road. The blackness was so intense that it appeared to have weight—to press upon their eyeballs like a tightly adjusted bandage. Away to the left came the gurgle of a mountain stream as it flowed swiftly through a deep cutting in the rocks.

"Here we are," said Peter at last.

"Yes," agreed Entwistle. "I know the place."

They were now clear of the trees. Looming mistily against the dark sky was a long, rambling, two-storeyed building surrounded by a roughly built stone wall. The latticed windows were heavily curtained. Not a light nor a sound came from the isolated dwelling.

"So Billy hasn't turned up yet," remarked Barcroft senior as he fumbled for his key. "Why, by Jove, the door's wide open!"

CHAPTER V

AT LADYBIRD FOLD

"COME in," he continued, assisting his companion over the threshold. "I won't switch a light on in the hall until I close the door. Jolly queer about it being open. There'll be a court of enquiry in the morning."

A violent scratching upon the study door attracted his attention.

"That's Ponto and Nan—my sheep-dogs," he explained. "Wonder why they are locked in? They ought to be in the kennels. They're quiet enough: they won't bite."

Entwistle smiled grimly. Peter's idea of quiet seemed rather peculiar, for the animals were barking furiously and redoubling their attacks upon the door.

"The paintwork?" echoed Barcroft in answer to his companion's enquiry, as he proceeded to hang up his cap and coat. "Oh, that won't matter. You see, there's a curtain on the inside and that hides the marks."

He opened the door of the study, to be greeted with a blaze of dazzling light and a couple of shaggy-haired dogs, who hurled themselves upon him in an ecstasy of delight.

"Down, down, both of you! Kennel up," ordered their master.

The dogs obeyed, Ponto retiring to the limited space between the pedestals of the roll-top desk while Nan bounded into the large arm-chair by the fire.

"That's better," said Barcroft composedly, glancing at the desk to see if any letter had arrived. "Now take it easy for a bit. There's the telephone. I'll scout round and see what's going. Whisky? Good! Excuse me a minute while I look for some stuff for your foot."

Philip Entwistle settled himself in the only vacant arm-chair and took stock of his immediate surroundings. The study was a fairly large room, measuring, roughly, thirty feet by twenty. On the side facing south were three broad casement windows, now heavily curtained with a light-proof fabric. The door was on the eastern side, opening into a spacious hall. The remaining walls were blank except for the old-fashioned fireplace. Oak panelling and massive beams of the same material—wood that had been in position for close on three hundred years—gave an old-time appearance to the room. The furniture was hardly in keeping with the place. Presumably it was for utility. The large pedestal, roll-top desk occupied a proportionate position against the west wall. Almost every available bit of wall-space was taken up with book-cases groaning under the weight of volumes of all sizes and ages, from the leatherbound tomes of the late Stuart period to the modern "sevenpenny." Not a picture was in evidence. Instead, above the book-shelves the walls were adorned with pieces of medieval armour and weapons ranging from the Elizabethan musketoon and pike to the latest type of magazine rifle. Above the fireplace was a seven-feet-scale model of a super- Dreadnought that, in its sombre garb of battleship grey, contrasted strongly with the black and yellow striped hull and dun-coloured canvas of an eighteenth century frigate that adorned another part of the room.

The study, like the rest of the house, was lighted by electricity—a discovery that Peter Barcroft had made with huge satisfaction. It was, indeed, a rare chance to hit upon an isolated dwelling, in a commanding, lofty situation, well-built and supplied with water, gas and electricity. The secret lay in the fact that at one time it had been the residence of the manager of the nearest bleaching works. Had it been daylight one would have noticed a line of hefty posts supporting a cable-system that ran up hill and down dale almost as far as the eye could reach. At certain intervals the supports bore a large board on which was painted in bold letters: "Dangerous—10,000 volts"—a warning to the youth of the district who might feel tempted to fly kites over the wires or even to climb the poles out of sheer exuberance of juvenile spirits.

It was from this cable by means of a "transformer" that Ladybird Fold derived its supply of electric current, and, as it happened, the works had not received any warning that night of the raid—a circumstance that contributed greatly to the comfort of Peter Barcroft's den.

From his chair Entwistle glanced at his host's desk and shuddered. The cover had been left rolled back, disclosing a veritable chaos of papers, reference books, writing materials, pipes and two large tobacco-jars. The pigeon-holes were crammed to bursting-point with a medley of papers, particularly the one labelled "Letters to be answered." From another gaped the crumpled ends of what were evidently a number of cheques that awaited a favourable opportunity on the part of the busy author (he put in an occasional two hours a day, be it remembered) to be paid into the Barborough Bank. A thick layer of dust covered the desk, although everything else in the room was fairly clear if the patches of tobacco ash on the carpet square were not taken into account. It was part of Peter's creed to knock out his pipes on the heel of his boot and deposit their remains on the floor, convenient ash-trays notwithstanding. For one thing it kept the moth away.

The dust, too, upon the desk was the result of studied design. The "help" from the village—a temporary importation pending Mrs. Barcroft's return and provided she was successful in her distracting quest—had been strictly enjoined, browbeaten and threatened with divers pains and penalties, not to disturb Peter's papers. With luck he could find what he wanted in five minutes; without, in an hour. That is, if the desk had been left severely alone. Otherwise, should the timorous female dare to "side-up"—a Lancashire expression that puzzled Barcroft tremendously at first—the quest would be almost hopeless.

Had Philip Entwistle been more inquisitive and observant he might have noticed that on the top of the pile of literary debris were two objects that showed no signs of a coating of dust. One was a bound volume entitled The Theories of Modern Naval Warfare—a work of Peter's that had been responsible for a price being set upon the head of that as yet unconscious-of-the-fact worthy. The other was a batch of manuscript comprising his nearly completed book The Great Reckoning—and After.

The reappearance of his host with a tray bearing a tantalus, syphon and a couple of glasses, cut short Entwistle's casual survey.

"How goes it now?" asked Barcroft. "Telephoned?"

"You certainly said, 'There's the telephone,'" replied his guest, "but failed to explain to my satisfaction where 'there' is. Consequently that solemn and protracted rite has not yet been performed."

"Sorry," said Peter with a laugh. "My mistake entirely. I ought to have mentioned that that convenient but much maligned instrument is in the hall. There's a great-coat hanging over it: my device to deaden the nerve-racking sound of the bell."

Entwistle shuffled across the room. In spite of the fact that he was now wearing a pair of his host's capacious slippers the injured foot occasioned him more pain than while he was on his way to the house.

He left the door ajar. Barcroft could hear him thumping the as yet unresponsive machine. Quite five minutes passed before his guest could "get on."

"Number four four five, Barborough ... what—engaged ... no reply? Well, try again."

More violent manipulation of the telephone accompanied by a flow of forcible language resulted in the desired object being attained.

"That you, Vi?... Yes,.. yes,.. no, I wasn't injured ... what's that? Church Street knocked out of existence.... Not nervous? That's good. I'm speaking from Ladybird Fold, Tarleigh. Tell Jarvis to run the car over for me in the morning. Yes, about ten. Good-night."

Returning to his study he found Peter at his desk.

"Needn't have worried so much about my wife," he announced. "She's quite plucky over it. She even chipped me at having missed the excitement."

Barcroft did not reply. He was regarding his desk with a distinctly preoccupied air.

"Dash the L.L.P." he exclaimed, addressing the room in general rather than his guest. "I'll swear she's been meddling with my papers. And she left that door open. I'll let her know who rules this show."

"Who's L.L.P.?" enquired Entwistle.

His host laughed.

"Merely the help," he replied. "Carter's her name. I call her Little Liver Pill—she reminds me of one. L.L.P, for short, you know."

"Might be your friend Andrew Norton," suggested the other.

"By Jove, yes! I hadn't thought of that," was the reply. "All the same, I don't think he would touch my desk. It's just likely that in a preoccupied moment (although as a rule he isn't given that way) he may have gone home and left the lights switched on and the door open. Hulloa, this looks queer! I wonder if Norton got into a funk over the Zep.?"

Barcroft pointed to a pipe lying on the mantelpiece. It was freshly filled and the tobacco was slightly charred, indicating that the owner had been interrupted in the act of lighting up.

"His pipe," he continued. "And he seems a fairly methodical fellow, not likely to leave anything behind. Hope he's all right. If it wasn't for the fact that I've had a long tramp and it's close on one thirty I'd run across to his place."

"What sort of a man is he?" enquired Entwistle.

"Decent—quite. Nothing of the bore about him, or I would have choked him off very quickly," replied Barcroft grimly. "Quite informal, and different from the ordinary type of caller when a fellow comes into a fresh district. You know the sort—stiff-necked blighters of both sexes who pay formal calls for the sole purpose of finding out who you are, what you are and what you've got. In my case, I suppose, they expect to find a sort of untamed curiosity: that's how they regard literary men, I believe. But my time is too precious to waste in that way, so I let them know it pretty quickly. Ah, there are the trains running again," he added as a dull rumble was borne to their ears. "Zep. show's over for to-night. Keen on bed?"

"Not very," replied Entwistle. "Are you?"

"I'm going to wait up for Billy," said the fond parent. "Wonder what the young bounder is doing now?"

As he spoke came the sounds of quick, firm footsteps up the cobbled path. Before Peter could get across the room the door was thrown open and Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft, his face blackened with smoke and dust and his great-coat bearing signs of rough usage, burst into the room.

"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh, what?"

CHAPTER VI

KIDNAPPED

IT will now be necessary to set back the hands of the clock to the hour of ten on the evening of the Zeppelin's visit to Barborough.

At that hour Mr. Andrew Norton was knocking on the door of Ladybird Fold, and vainly endeavouring to restrain the boisterous attentions of Ponto and Nan.

"Good evening, Mrs. Carter," he said as the door was opened revealing the domestic stopgap with her head covered by a shawl—the recognised head-dress of the working-class women of industrial Lancashire. "Any one at home?"

"Only mysen, master," was the reply. "An' in another minute you would be findin' me gone. Mr. Barcroft he's out, but he'll not be long, I'm thinkin'. An' young Mr. Barcroft—'im as is in the Navy—is expected home to-night. But come in, you're kindly welcome."

"And at what time is young Mr. Barcroft expected?" he asked in a tone that implied mild curiosity, as he stepped over the threshold.

"I'm not for sayin' for certain. Master had a telegram. You'll not be wantin' anythin', sir?"

Norton shook his head. Accompanied by the two dogs he entered the study and switched on the lights. As he did so he heard the door slam and Mrs. Carter's retreating footsteps on the hard path.

He knew how to make himself at home during his friend's absence. He was one of those men who have the happy knack of forming quick friendships, and the somewhat easy-going Peter was a good subject in that respect.

Andrew Norton was a man of forty-five, although he looked considerably younger. He was of medium height, full-featured and inclined to stoutness. A keen motorist, he had attracted Barcroft's attention on the very first day of his taking possession of "The Croft," when he was endeavouring to take a large car up the difficult lane beyond Ladybird Fold. Since there was plenty of accommodation in the outbuilding utilised as a garage at Barcroft's house Peter's suggestion that it would be easier for the newcomer to The Croft to keep his car there and thus save a steep and loose ascent was accepted with profuse gratitude.

From that moment the friendship ripened. Almost every evening after the literary man's strenuous labours were completed for the day Andrew Norton would drop in for a smoke and a yarn.

"Rotten nuisance!" mused the hostless guest as he settled himself in an easy chair. "If only I knew what time he was returning. The uncertainty will probably make a regular mess of present arrangements."

It might have been idle curiosity that prompted him to cross over to the desk and examine Peter's uncompleted work; sheer anxiety that led him to the open window to listen intently for the sound of his absent friend's footsteps.

Through the uncurtained window three shafts of brilliant light were flung upon the closely-cropped lawn, the limit of the rays being defined by a thick hedge dividing the lawn from the rose-garden.

"No signs yet," he muttered, as he glanced at the clock for the twentieth time. "Friend Barcroft's regrettable absence is spoiling my evening. I'll get back to The Croft."

He drew the curtains with deliberate care, so that no stray ray of light should escape. Lighting restrictions were lax in that part of Lancashire, as the twinkling glimmers from the houses in the valley testified; for in the district where he had previously lived for two years there were drastic observances on that score, and now the habit of conforming to the requirements of the authorities was not lightly to be dropped.

"I'll give him five minutes more," he soliloquised as he drew a pipe from his pocket and charged it with great deliberation. This he proceeded to light, making use of a paper spill. Here he showed a marked contrast to the easygoing methods of the occupier of Ladybird Fold. In spite of their high price, Peter invariably used matches—and plenty of them. Usually the hearth was littered with the burnt-out stumps, for Barcroft always had a pipe in his mouth when he was writing. It might go out twenty times before the tobacco was expended, but every time a fresh match was struck and flung away to augment the already numerous accumulation in the fireplace.

Just then the two dogs sat up and barked. Norton started nervously. He was only just beginning to get used to the sturdy, shaggy animals.

"Quiet!" he shouted.

A peremptory knock sounded on the door. The still burning spill fell from the man's fingers. He made his way into the hall, shutting the study door upon the dogs. Vainly he groped for the switch operating the front door light.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

"Telegram for Mr. Barcroft," replied a deep voice.

Had Norton paused to consider the likelihood of a telegram being delivered at a very late hour in a remote country district he might have saved himself from a great deal of personal inconvenience. But he did not.

He threw open the door. His eyes, still dazzled by the quick transition from the brilliant light within to the intense darkness without, stared vacantly into the night, while his right hand groped furtively for the expected orange coloured envelope.

As he did so a pair of powerful hands grasped his ankles. His involuntary exclamation of mingled astonishment and indignation was stifled by a thick cloth twisted over his mouth and round his head, while simultaneously his arms were pinioned to his sides.

Unable to move a limb, much less to struggle, he found himself lifted from the ground and borne away as helpless as an infant.

"Fools!" he spluttered. "Fools! You'll be sorry for this."

Whether his captors heard his muffled protests or not they paid no heed save to give the cloth that encircled his head an extra twist. The pressure upon his nose was painful. He had difficulty in breathing, so, realising that his stifled exclamations were futile, he wisely held his peace from a vocal point of view, although inwardly he was raging furiously.

He could hear the boots of his captors clattering on the cobbles until the crisp-sounding footfalls told him that the men had gained the cinder path on the east side of the house. Then, with considerable effort on the part of his bearers, he was lifted up a flight of four stone steps, beyond which, he knew, was an extensive grassfield that rose gradually for the next half mile.

Grunting and obviously short of breath the men trudged stolidly onwards for perhaps nearly two hundred yards. Once Norton thought fit to make a sudden effort and wriggle from his captors' grasp, but the attempt ended disastrously to himself. Brutally they bumped him upon the ground. The shock to the spinal system was excruciating, but it had the desired effect. The prisoner's spirit of resistance was broken; even the stern mandate, "Quiet, or you are a dead man," was unnecessary.

The scarf or cloth that enveloped his head had slipped during the struggle. He could now see. Either his kidnappers had not noticed the fact or else they regarded it as of no consequence.

He could discern the faces and upper portions of the bodies of the two men. They were tall burly fellows dressed in black oilskins. In spite of their powerful physique they were breathing stertorously; they reeked of petrol.

Another fifty yards and they came to a halt. Norton turned his head and saw what appeared at first sight to be the dark grey body of a motorcar. It was quivering under the application of some unseen influence, yet there was no purr of internal mechanism to justify the belief that it possessed self-contained machinery.

"Lash that schweinhund's ankles, Pfeil," ordered one of the fellows in German. "That is right; now do you enter first and I'll heave the English fool up so that you can get him inside."

"Now is the dangerous time," commented his companion as he scrambled through a narrow aperture.

"It is ever a dangerous time with us," rejoined the other gloomily.

"Ah, yes; but now? Supposing the wire is insufficient to take the strain?"

"It will bear thrice our total weight," replied the first speaker, "frail though it looks. No fear of that breaking. It is that highly-charged electric cable that worries me. We must have landed nearer to it than we should have done, yet it looks further away on the map."

The fellow completed his difficult task of lifting Norton into the interior of the covered-in car—the observation room of a Zeppelin floating motionless five hundred feet or so overhead.

The commander of the giant aircraft had successfully carried out a daring manoeuvre with the ultimate object of taking prisoner the man on whom his imperial master the "All-Highest" had set a price for his capture. Taking advantage of an almost imperceptible breeze and knowing his position to an almost dead certainty by means of exact cross-bearings afforded by three reservoirs, conspicuous even in the darkness, he had caused to be lowered the aluminium observation car.

In flight this contrivance is slung close under the after part of the Zeppelin, but when necessary it can be lowered by means of a fine but enormously strong flexible steel wire to a maximum distance of two thousand feet beneath the giant envelope. Thus it is possible for a Zeppelin to remain hidden in a bank of clouds and lower the observation car to within a few hundred feet of the ground. Its comparatively small size and inconspicuous colour would render it invisible even at that short distance, and give the observer an uninterrupted view of the country. By means of a telephone he could then communicate with the commander of the airship and indicate the objects singled out for attack.

On this occasion the aluminium box was lowered till it touched the ground. The two men purposely told off for the work in hand had anchored the car, thereby keeping the Zeppelin stationary also. In the event of a surprise the airship's crew would unhesitatingly sever the wire and leave the car and their two comrades to their fate.

And now most of this particular enterprise had been carried out. The supposed object of their attentions lay gagged and bound within the aluminium cage. All that remained to be done was to break out the grapnel and signal to the men in the Zeppelin to wind in the steel cable.

"All ready?" enquired Pfeil through the telephone. "Good! When I give the signal will you forge ahead to the north-east? Why? Because we are much too close to the high tension cable which Herr Leutnant knows of."

He leant through an aperture in the side of the cradle and listened intently. At the first sound of the airship's propellers he jerked a tripping-line smartly. The fluke of the grapnel folded as he did so, and the car, no longer held captive, slid jerkily over the grass.

"Up!" telephoned the German.