Count Hertz von Peilfell, on finding himself alone under lock and key, began to rave in genuine Teutonic style. He realized that he had made a mess of things generally. His calculated plans had gone wrong simply through a careless lack of caution, and now he was confronted by the prospect of ending his career in front of a British firing-squad.
The Count was a man who did not hesitate to take certain risks, but invariably he weighed up his chances. Cool and calculating, he was not one who would embark upon a project for the mere love of adventure.
His record as an airman was well known to the R.A.F. The latter admired his audacity, although they had no love for the means he employed. He was typical of the brute force of Prussianism—his mission as an airman was to destroy, ruthlessly and methodically, and, when the odds were against him, his gaudily-painted biplane was not to be seen aloft.
So when the time came that the Hun in the air was "having a sticky time all round", Von Peilfell discreetly kept clear of the British flying-men. He became an instructor, teaching German quirks to fly in machines that, by nature of the shortage of certain raw material in Hunland, could never hope to hold their own against the magnificently-constructed and powerfully-engined craft bearing the distinctive red, white, and blue concentric circles.
Then came rumours—rumours that were based upon solid facts—that the British and French airmen were bent upon reprisals for wanton night-bombing of undefended towns. Berlin was to be the supreme objective of the numerous squadrons of huge bombing-\'planes that were being concentrated on the Western Front.
In desperation the German High Command called a conference, to which the "star" airmen of the Imperial Air Service were summoned. The return of the boomerang was a prospect that the apostles of kultur not only failed to appreciate, but dreaded. At all costs the peril must be staved off—either by counter-active measures or by hypocritical appeals to neutrals, or, as a last resource, by applying for an armistice.
It was Von Peilfell\'s chance. A popularity hunter, he knew that the cessation of his aerial achievements was rapidly placing him on the list of fallen idols. The pulse of the German populace—the picture-post-card dealers—told him this. Where once a hundred thousand photographs of the "Sky Hussars" were sold, now barely a thousandth part of that number were disposed of.
To regain his vanished prestige, the Count suggested a scheme, namely, that he should enter hostile territory disguised, and find out where these mysterious battleplanes were concentrating, and also note the details of their construction.
Von Peilfell had carefully counted the risk. He was a fluent speaker of English. His accent was almost faultless. Several years spent in England, including a period at a public school, had given him a remarkable insight into the life of an Englishman, while in pre-war days he had made the acquaintance of several British officers, with the sole view of making good use of the knowledge thus obtained when "Der Tag" dawned.
Having obtained official sanction, Von Peilfell proceeded to put his plan into execution. A slightly-damaged EG biplane had fallen behind the German lines, and its pilot had been captured. The machine was repaired; the Count, dressed in the complete uniform of the captured airman, set out just before daybreak to attempt his hazardous errand.
The German Head-quarters Staff knew exactly the aerodrome from whence the captured EG machine had come. The Count, therefore, decided to give that locality a wide berth, and, by assuming the r?le of a pilot who had lost his way and had been compelled to descend owing to engine failure, make his way to Le Tenetoir aerodrome, where, if his information proved correct, he would find the giant aeroplanes making ready for their flight to Berlin.
But when he alighted in view of the car carrying Lieutenant Derek Daventry, R.A.F., he unwittingly committed two grave errors. He was unaware that Derek, who was in the habit of piloting one of the somewhat small number of EG\'s, immediately took a keen professional interest in the apparently crippled machine. He was also ignorant of the fact that Derek was his antagonist on the occasion when both British and German pilots were unable to exchange a single shot; nor did he know that when he raised his goggles and grinned at his rival, that grimace had been indelibly printed upon Derek\'s memory. These two instances led to the Count finding himself under lock and key in a dug-out that served as a cell.
Like a caged bird Von Peilfell paced to and fro. He realized that his case was a desperate one, and that his shrift would be short; a drumhead court-martial at eight in the evening would be followed by execution at dawn.
For nearly an hour he maintained his restless promenade, a prey to dejection. The dug-out was barely twenty feet in length and seven in breadth, so that there was little room for exercise. He tried to formulate a plan of escape, but none seemed feasible. The place was unlighted, save by the dim glimmer of a candle set in a stable lantern. Ventilation was provided by means of a length of bent stove-pipe passing between two of the massive girders supporting the concreted and sand-bagged roof. The walls were heavily timbered, and, upon examination, found to be backed by cement. A flight of steep and narrow steps gave access to the open air, but at the top was a massive oaken door. Incidentally, the Huns............