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, master," 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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, a.s.sisting 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 s.h.a.ggy-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 s.p.a.ce 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 cas.e.m.e.nt windows, now heavily curtained with a light-proof fabric. The door was on the eastern side, opening into a s.p.a.cious hall. The remaining walls were blank except for the old-fashioned fireplace. Oak panelling and ma.s.sive 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-s.p.a.ce 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 circ.u.mstance 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 ent.i.tled _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 ma.n.u.script 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 gla.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sed before his guest could "get on."

"Number four four five, Barborough ... what--engaged ... no reply?

Well, try again."