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."