It was a large, imposing place with many sheds and workshops, occupying a considerable area. The whole place was surrounded by a high wall, and, beyond, a barbed-wire entanglement, for the secrets of the work in progress were well guarded by trusty, armed watchmen night and day.
Pryor was seated in his office chatting with Mr. Woodhouse, the wide-awake and active manager, about certain business matters, when he suddenly said:
“By the way, it will be best to double all precautions against any information leaking out from here, and on no account to admit any strangers upon any pretext whatever. Even if any fresh Government viewer comes along he is not to enter until you have verified his identity-pass.”
“Very well,” was Woodhouse’s reply. “But why are we to be so very particular?”
“Well, I have my own reasons. Without doubt, our friend the enemy is extremely anxious to obtain the secrets of ‘The Hornet,’ and also the silencer. And in these days we must run no risks.”
Then, after a stroll through the sheds where a hundred or so men were at work upon the various parts of the new battleplane destined to “strafe” the Huns, and clear the air of the Fokkers, the easy-going but intrepid airman made his way back to Pall Mall, where he ate an early dinner alone in the big upstairs dining-room at the Royal Automobile Club.
By half-past seven he had smoked the post-prandial cigarette, swallowed a tiny glass of Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge, and was strolling back along Pall Mall towards Charing Cross.
At the corner of the Haymarket he hailed a passing taxi, and drove out to Hammersmith to a small, dingy house situated in a side-turning off the busy King Street. There he dismissed the conveyance, and entered the house with a latch-key.
“Cranch!” he shouted when in the small, close-smelling hall, having closed the door behind him. “Cranch! Are you at home?”
“Hullo! Is that you, Mr. Pryor?” came a cheery answer, when from the back room on the ground-floor emerged a burly, close-shaven man in his shirt-sleeves, for it was a hot, breathless night.
“Yes. I’m quite a stranger, am I not?” laughed Pryor, following his host back into the cheaply furnished sitting-room.
“Look here, Cranch, I’m going out on a funny expedition to-night,” he said. “I want you to fit me up with the proper togs for the Walworth Road. You know the best rig-out. And I want you to come with me.”