Thirty waved his hand and set off down the hedge at a steady trot.

Rip watched him until he disappeared into the darkness, and then, picking up the food-bag, began to make his way cautiously towards the landing-field.

Chapter 14.

Belville-Sur-Somme Thirty struck off across the fields until he came to the road he was looking for; he knew of its existence, having previously marked it down from the air; he also knew that in one direction it led to Belville-sur-Somme, some six or seven kilometres distant.

At the road he halted for a minute or two to take stock of the general situation. The, centre of the storm had now pa.s.sed and with it the torrential downpour, although lightning still flickered along the eastern horizon and the aftermath of the rainclouds precipitated a steady drizzle. The night was dark. From where he stood, soaked to the skin, he could not see a single light. Fortunately it was not cold, so he suffered no great discomfort on account of the wet. Satisfied with his inspection of the immediate surroundings, he set off at a steady pace towards the village.

He had covered about a kilometre when he heard a motor vehicle coming along the road behind him; it sounded like a heavy lorry. It was, in fact, a motor-wagon, and he stood aside to allow it to pa.s.s, for the road was so narrow that it occupied the whole of it, and the wheels were spurting mud on either side. He did not attempt to hide; there seemed to be no reason why he should; the driver of the vehicle would expect to see somebody on the road occasionally, and there was no reason why he should attach any importance to a belated peasant. Therefore Thirty simply stood aside to allow the wagon to pa.s.s.

It did not occur to him that it might stop, so he was unprepared for what happened. As it drew level with him the wagon slowed down, and too late Thirty wished that he had hidden in the hedge until it had pa.s.sed; but he realized that to do so now would be foolish, for the headlights had revealed him.

'Lovely night,' called the driver, with cheerful sarcasm, speaking in German. 'How far are you going?'

Thirty, in the brief interval at his disposal before he was compelled to answer, could think of no reason for not telling the truth. 'Belville,' he said.

'So am I,' declared the driver. 'Hop up.'

Thirty hopped up. There was nothing else he could do. As the wagon lurched forward he s.n.a.t.c.hed a glance at his companion, and saw that he was a soldier.

'Nearly time this cursed war was over,' grumbled the driver.

Thirty agreed, without enthusiasm. He was thinking hard.

The driver looked at him for a moment; it could only be for a moment because care was needed to keep the vehicle on the narrow road. 'What are you doing, wandering about by yourself on a night like this?' he questioned, but without real interest.

I've got a message to deliver,' replied Thirty, evasively.

Silence fell.

It's a fair step to Belville; lucky for you I came along,' observed the German presently, in an inconsequential tone of voice, apparently for the sake of saying something.

'Yes, it will save my legs and my boot-leather,' agreed Thirty, wishing the man would not talk.

'Got a match on you?' was the next question.

Thirty had, but he did not say so, for the very good reason that he had no desire to reveal what was under his blouse. 'I don't smoke,' he answered truthfully, and the German accepted this as a negative answer.

Presently, to Thirty's relief, the soldier began to sing. The wagon trundled on, sometimes pa.s.sing a farmhouse or peasant's cottage. Once they pa.s.sed what looked like a big concentration camp. Shortly afterwards lights began to appear ahead.

The driver stopped singing and yawned. 'Nearly there,' he said. 'Where shall I drop you?'

It struck Thirty that he was safer where he was than he would be on the ground, for they were now meeting frequent parties of soldiers, no doubt on their way back to the concentration camp after an evening in the village. 'Do you go near the church?' he asked.

I'm parking in the square right in front of it,' announced the German.

'Then there's no need for you to stop; I'll go there with you,' returned Thirty, well satisfied with this arrangement.

They entered the long village street, ran the full length of it, b.u.mped across a level crossing, and then turned into a large square on the far side of which loomed the black silhouette of the church tower.

Thirty caught his breath and held it, for the scene was very different from the one he had imagined. He had thought to dismount in a deserted village square whence he would be able to stroll away without further parley. Instead of that he found himself in the centre of a scene of military activity. Parked all round the square were lorries and several sorts of artillery. Horses were picketed with cavalry precision; round them, stable-guards in oilskins or great-coats kept the animals in order. In one corner the fire of a field-kitchen flung a cheerful glow over the shining cobble-stones. Troops crowded round it. Soldiers were everywhere.

Into the very middle of this unwelcome spectacle the driver guided his wagon. It stopped with a jerk. 'So,' he said. 'Here we are.'

'Thanks, I'll do as much for you some day,' said Thirty quietly, and prepared to dismount.

In spite of his efforts to remain calm, his heart was fluttering, and he determined to lose no time in removing himself from such distasteful surroundings.

But even as he climbed down a cloaked figure detached itself from a group and moved towards the vehicle.

Is that you, w.i.l.l.y Schmidt?' asked a voice. 'fa,' replied the driver.

'Who's that you've got with you?'

A fellow I gave a lift to, that's all.'

'You know it's against orders to give rides to strangers.'

'He's the son of the woman at my billet,' lied the soldier, evidently with the object of saving himself from further reprimand.

Thirty began to walk away. Every instinct in him was prompting him to run, but he kept himself under control and walked as naturally as possible. Risking a sidelong glance, he saw to his consternation that the German N.C.O. was staring at his feet; he knew well enough what the man was staring at, and only by a supreme effort did he refrain from looking down at his field-boots.

'Hi, you!' shouted the N.C.O. suddenly.

Thirty pretended not to hear. Mingling with a party of soldiers, he hurried amongst them, and then slipped between the line of lorries to the pavement.

The N.C.O. shouted again, louder this time. Thirty heard him start to run forward and knew that he was in a tight corner. To make a bolt for it would, he knew, attract attention to himself, and with so many troops about this was the last thing he wanted. Still walking as quickly as he dared, his eyes flashed round his immediate surroundings. A dozen paces away a narrow alley leading off the square beckoned invitingly, and towards it he turned his steps. As soon as he was inside he darted forward, and did not slow down until the darkness in the unlighted pa.s.sage forced him to go more warily.

He stopped to listen. He could still hear the N.C.O.'s strident voice, but he judged that he was talking to the troops in the square and had not followed him into the alley. Not a little relieved, he looked about him; he knew that he must be close to the church, but owing to the narrowness of the path in which he found himself, all he could see was the rising walls of the dingy houses on either side. However, to go back was out of the question, so he hurried on, keeping a look-out for an opening on either hand, hoping that he would find one wide enough to enable him to see the church tower and thus get his bearings. Instead, he came upon something which suited him even better, although it was not without a grim significance, for at the point where he struck it there was a surprising number of newly turned mounds of earth. It was the churchyard. In the centre of it loomed the stately ma.s.s of the church itself, now gaunt and forbidding in the dim light. Beyond it, and a little to one side, stood a house, from one window of which, on the ground-floor, a blur of orange light glowed fitfully through the misty rain.

Standing as it did in the churchyard, he knew that the house could be nothing but the presbytery, but between him and the little path that led to it was a formidable fence of perpendicular iron railings. He hesitated, and while he stood thus in indecision he heard footsteps approaching from the direction from which he had come. The footsteps were hurried, and accompanied by the sound of many voices. Instinctively he started off the opposite way, but before he had gone a dozen paces he heard footsteps coming from that direction also. In a moment he was clambering over the railings, hampered not a little by the blue blouse which he dared not discard. Reaching the top, he balanced himself precariously for a moment, and then jumped down on the other side. He landed with a jar that shook most of the breath out of his body, for the ground was uneven; but, waiting only long enough to recover his balance, he sped across the churchyard like a hunted animal, jumping over graves and dodging round the ornate tombstones that rose in front of him.

He reached a shrubbery, which he now discovered formed a hedge between the churchyard and the presbytery garden, and there stopped to collect his wits and his composure, for his nerves were quivering under the strain of his predicament. He could still hear voices in the direction of the footpath, but otherwise all seemed quiet, so, moving quietly, he forced a way through the shrubbery and approached the house.

Now that the moment had come, doubts began to a.s.sail him. Suppose it was not the right house? Suppose the priest was not at home? Suppose . . . He pulled himself together with an effort. Should he go to the window, or to the door? Peering into the gloom, he saw that he was in a small paved courtyard, on the far side of which stood a door with a window on either side. No lights showed. All was as silent as the grave.

'Well, it's no use standing here; I've got to get in somehow,' he thought desperately, and walking quickly to the door, knocked on it with his knuckles. Then he listened; but the only sound was the monotonous dripdrip-drip of rain from the overflowing eaves. He knocked again, looking apprehensively over his shoulder in the direction of the path, where sounds suggested that a number of men had halted.

'Yes, what is it?'

Thirty jumped convulsively as the words, spoken softly in French, came from the doorway. He had not heard the door open. Even now he was not quite sure whether it was open or shut.

'Father Dupont?' he whispered.

'Yes, my son,' replied the voice evenly. 'What can I do for you at this late hour?'

I have a message for you,' said Thirty softly, in his best French.

Ah! Come in.'

Thirty stepped forward and, stood still while he heard the door being closed and bolted.

Suddenly a match flared up, and for the first time he could see the speaker, who was now lighting a candle. He experienced a feeling of profound relief when he perceived the black ca.s.sock of a priest.

'Follow me.'

Obediently Thirty followed the man down a narrow panelled corridor, on either side of which hung rows of old prints-pictures of saints and other religious subjects. Then a door was opened, and he found himself in a well-lighted room that was evidently a study.

'Kindly be seated.'

Thirty sat nervously in the proffered chair while the priest walked slowly to the chair behind his desk and settled himself in it. Thirty looked at him curiously, for he was not in any way the sort of man he expected to see. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, he had visualized a keen, hawk-like face with piercing eyes; a slim, sinister-looking person.

Instead, he found himself looking into a pair of gentle brown eyes, as soft as those of a doe. They were set in a round, kindly face, free from any sign of care or worry. But for the clerical attire, the man might have been a prosperous restaurantproprietor-so thought Thirty as he gazed at him, wondering how to open the conversation.

'You said something about a message, I think?' the priest reminded him, quietly.

Thirty groped for his pocket under the blouse, and took out the little box which he had risked so much to deliver. 'I was told to bring this to you,' he said, simply.

The priest's eyes looked at him from a face that was now completely devoid of expression. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Is that all?'

'Yes . . . that's all,' replied Thirty awkwardly, somewhat taken aback by the other's manner.

'Then you'll be going now? Come, I will show you out.'

Thirty stared. In his heart he knew that his mission had been accomplished and there was no reason for him to delay, yet he had hardly expected such a casual reception. Doubts again swept through him.

'You are Father Dupont?' he questioned, feeling more than a little embarra.s.sed.

'Do you doubt it?'

er-no.'

'Then why question it?'

Thirty plunged. 'You know what is in that box?' The priest regarded him dispa.s.sionately.

'I shall find out,' he said.

Thirty experienced a strange sensation of anticlimax. The encounter, so far from having any dramatic quality, had proved to be so casual as to make him feel suddenly foolish. A faint smile crossed his face. But it faded suddenly as a sound reached his ears, and he knew from the manner in which the priest stiffened almost imperceptibly that he had heard it, too. Otherwise his manner did not change. -Footsteps were approaching the house-heavy footsteps; and with them, faintly, came the c.h.i.n.k of spurs.

The priest looked at Thirty. 'Did any one see you come here?' he asked, in a low voice.

'No-that is, I don't think so.'

'Then go through into the kitchen. It is the first turning on the right down the corridor.

Put on the ap.r.o.n you will find hanging behind the door and stir the soup which you will find simmering on the fire. Say nothing. Should any one speak to you, act as though you were dumb.' The priest spoke quietly, but swiftly.

Thirty nodded, and turning on his heel strode swiftly down the corridor. As he pa.s.sed into the kitchen there came a loud knocking on the door.

Chapter 15.

A Desperate Predicament Acting almost mechanically, he unhooked the ap.r.o.n which he found hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on, also a white chef's hat which was with it. He had purposely left the door ajar, and with what tense interest he listened can be better imagined than described. A glance showed him the soup simmering on an old-fashioned stove, but he paid no further attention to it.

Standing just inside the kitchen with his ear to the slightly open door, he heard the front door opened; a word of greeting, spoken in German, followed.

Ah, good evening, Herr Leutnant ,' said the priest, easily. 'What indiscretion have you enjoyed that you seek absolution at this -'

I seek something more concrete than absolution,' broke in a voice, bluntly. 'A suspicious stranger was seen in the village not long ago. My corporal swears he made off in the direction of the churchyard, so I have looked in to warn you to keep your doors locked.'

'Surely this - er- stranger would not be so evil as to rob a poor priest like myself. My thanks for your solicitude, nevertheless.'

One never knows,' returned the voice.

Thirty breathed more easily. It seemed as if the visit portended nothing very serious, after all. But at the Leutnant's next words he stiffened with horror. 'We've sent for the dogs; they'll soon rout him out,' muttered the German, viciously.

The dogs! The words so upset Thirty that he could not think clearly. He knew well enough what the Leutnant meant, for he had heard often enough of the sagacious police-dogs that were used by the German army. What upset him most was the knowledge that once the dogs were put on his trail they would follow him to the house, which, apart from his own undoing, could hardly fail to throw suspicion on the priest.

Thirty forced himself to think calmly. At all costs he must save the man upon whom so much depended. But how? He could think of only one way. Whether he was there or not, the dogs would certainly lead the Germans into the house. That was inevitable. But if he adopted the role of a thief it would give the priest an opportunity of denying any knowledge of him, which he would be unable to do if he, Thirty, continued to pose as a chef. His mind was soon made up. A thief he would be. Then, once clear of the house, it would matter little to the priest if he were caught or not.

The German and the priest were still talking in the study, but their tones were m.u.f.fled and he could not hear the actual words. Without expecting to see any one, he peeped along the corridor, but stepped back again swiftly with palpitating heart when his eyes fell on two German soldiers standing just inside the front door, which had been left open.

Fortunately, they were watching the churchyard, so their backs were towards him.

Thirty steadied himself and looked round. The difficulty was to find something to steal. The only thing one was likely to find in a kitchen was food; still, that would do, he reflected. It would look as if he, a fugitive, had broken in on account of hunger.

In the larder he found, amongst other things, bread, half a ham, cheese, and a small sack half full of potatoes. It was the work of a moment to turn the potatoes out on to the floor; and in their place he thrust all the foodstuffs he could lay hands on. Thus laden, he stepped back into the kitchen. Instantly there was a sharp tap on the window. With a start that he could not repress, he looked in the direction of the sound. A face surmounted by a spiked helmet was grinning at him through the gla.s.s.

Thirty turned cold, but he did not lose control of himself. As much from sheer desperation as any thought of playing a bold hand, he crossed to the window and opened it.

'What do you want?' he said, in tones which he strove to keep casual.

Any soup in the pot?' asked the German.

Of course,' replied Thirty. 'Have some?'