Part 19 (1/2)

After a run of minor activities, an opportunity was about to occur whereby they might render an important service to the Fatherland. A high official was engaged upon an industrial tour of Lancas.h.i.+re and Yorks.h.i.+re, with the intention of increasing the already huge output of munitions from the factories temporarily given over to the production of war-like stores. The magnetic personality of the man made the task an easy one to him, although others less gifted would have encountered nothing but opposition had they proposed the same conditions to the independent operatives of Lancas.h.i.+re and Yorks.h.i.+re. He was one of the very few Government officials who understood the northern temperament.

When others would have ”rubbed them up the wrong way”, this level-headed statesman was able to enlist the whole-hearted sympathies of blunt and outspoken audiences. His persuasive powers were worth an army corps to the Commander-in-Chief of the British troops in France.

The five Germans had laid their plans well. Their proposed operations had met with full approval from head-quarters at Berlin, and the result of their efforts was anxiously awaited by the German Government. Since abduction left a loophole in the complete furtherance of the plot, Teutonic thoroughness and frightfulness had devised a more drastic plan.

At the summit of the Blackstone Edge is a large lake or reservoir, its unfenced sides shelving steeply to a depth, in a certain place, of fifty feet. It would be a comparatively simple matter to wreck the car, murder its occupants if they still survived the fall from the overturned vehicle, and topple the wreckage into the dark waters of the mountain lake.

A cloud pa.s.sed athwart the sun. The sweltering heat gave place to a piercing cold. The Huns s.h.i.+vered in the cold wind and grumbled at the keenness of the English June. Overhead three gaunt crows flew, cawing dismally. With Teutonic superst.i.tion one of the men called his companions' attention to the ill omen.

”Nonsense, Otto!” protested the man known as Hans. ”The ill luck is directed against the man for whom we are waiting so patiently. Ha!

Here comes the car.”

With their heads just showing above the ridge, the five kept the approaching motor under close observation. It was climbing rapidly, leaving in its wake a cloud of dust that drifted slowly across the deep valley on the left-hand side of the curve. Presently an unmistakable rasping sound announced the fact that the driver, finding the gradient too severe, had let in the lowest gear.

”Are you certain it is he?” asked one of the Huns. ”There are four in the car?”

”Did you suppose he would travel alone?” retorted his leader. ”That is he right enough--the man in civilian clothes. The other is a military staff officer. The red in his cap proves that. The younger men are doubtless his secretaries--valets perhaps. Yes, it is our man. Now, make ready.”

Giving a glance in the opposite direction in order to make certain that no one was approaching from the Yorks.h.i.+re side of the Pa.s.s, Hans cautiously placed a small battery within easy reach of his fat, podgy fingers. From the battery ran a couple of fine wires through the stretch of gra.s.s, terminating at an inconspicuous greyish object lying in the centre of the road in the midst of a scatter of loose stones.

At the critical moment a touch upon the firing-key of the battery and----

”Why are you so keen upon the East Coast route, Crosthwaite?” asked the admiral. ”It's a jolly sight longer.”

”That I admit,” replied the general. ”But I know it, which makes a vast difference. The Carlisle road is jolly rough, especially over Shap Summit.”

”By the by, George, here is a little problem for you,” said Admiral Sefton. ”Which is the farthest west, Liverpool or Edinburgh?”

George looked at Leslie for a.s.sistance. That worthy, having heard the question put many times before, took an astonis.h.i.+ng interest in a policeman at the street corner.

”Well, sir,” replied George, ”Liverpool is on the west coast; Edinburgh on the east----”

”Within a few miles,” corrected the admiral. ”Therefore I should imagine that Liverpool is more to the west.”

”Then look it up on the map,” exclaimed Admiral Sefton triumphantly.

”You'll find you're wrong. That's why I couldn't understand your father's intention of keeping to the East Coast route until he explained his preference.”

”We'll do it quicker, too,” rejoined Crosthwaite, Senior. ”Once we're clear of the outskirts of Manchester we'll reel off the miles like winking. Here you are: Rochdale, Halifax, Bradford, and Harrogate, striking the Great North Road at Boroughbridge.”

The journey was resumed, the admiral, as before, sitting with Crosthwaite Senior, while George and Leslie, comfortably ensconced in the rear seats, were surrept.i.tiously examining a formidable-looking air-pistol that Leslie Sefton had smuggled into his portmanteau.

It was modelled after a Service weapon, having the same weight and balance. The barrel was rifled, and was capable of sending a lead slug with considerable force and low trajectory from a distance of fifty yards.

”We'll take pot shots at rabbits on the way,” declared Leslie. ”The governor won't hear the sound. It makes very little noise, and the engine will drown that. There'll be hundreds of bunnies up there,” and he pointed to the still-distant outlines of the frowning Pennines.

Up and up, out of the dreary manufacturing district, the car climbed, until the moist smoky atmosphere of the cotton-mills gave place to the keen bracing air of the hills.

Both lads, alive to the possibilities of using the air-pistol, hung on to the side of the car, their eyes roving the gra.s.s-land in the hope of spotting a likely target.

The car had been climbing on low gear, but now the gradient became less.