Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers (page 5)

a foot, and often before used for the same purpose. All at once I was aware that a check had come, for the dinghy swerved and doubled like a hound ranging after scent.

‘Stop her,’ he said, suddenly, ‘and throw out the grapnel.’

I obeyed and we brought up, swinging to a slight current, whose direction Davies verified by the compass. Then for half a minute he gave himself up to concentrated thought. What struck me most about him was that he never for a moment strained his eyes through the fog; a useless exercise (for five yards or so was the radius of our vision) which, however, I could not help indulging in, while I rested. He made up his mind, and we were off again, straight and swift as an arrow this time. and in water deeper than the boat-hook. I could see by his face that he was taking some bold expedient whose issue hung in the balance … Again we touched mud, and the artist’s joy of achievement shone in his eyes. Backing away, we headed west. and for the first time he began to gaze into the fog.

‘There’s one!’ he snapped at last. ‘Easy all!’

A boom, one of the usual upright saplings, glided out of the mist. He caught hold of it, and we brought up.

‘Rest for three minutes now,’ he said. ‘We’re in fairly good time.’

It was 11.10. I ate some biscuits and took a nip of whisky while Davies prepared for the next stage.

We had reached the eastern outlet of Memmert Balje, the channel which runs east and west behind Juist Island, direct to the south point of Memmert. How we had reached it was incomprehensible to me at the time, but the reader will understand by comparing my narrative with the dotted line on the chart. I add this brief explanation, that Davies’s method had been to cross the channel called the Buse Tief, and strike the other side of it at a point well _south_ of the outlet of the Memmert Balje (in view of the northward set of the ebb-tide), and then to drop back north and feel his way to the outlet. The check was caused by a deep indentation in the Itzendorf Flat; a _cul-de-sac,_ with a wide mouth, which Davies was very near mistaking for the Balje itself. We had no time to skirt dents so deep as that; hence the dash across its mouth with the chance of missing the upper lip altogether, and of either being carried out to sea (for the slightest error was cumulative) or straying fruitlessly along the edge.

The next three miles were the most critical of all. They included the ‘watershed’, whose length and depth were doubtful; they included, too, the crux of the whole passage, a spot where the channel forks, our own branch continuing west, and another branch diverging from it north-westward. We must row against time, and yet we must negotiate that crux. Add to this that the current was against us till the watershed was crossed; that the tide was just at its most baffling stage, too low to allow us to risk short cuts, and too high to give definition to the banks of the channel; and that the compass was no aid whatever for the minor bends. ‘Time’s up,’ said Davies, and on we went. I was hugging the comfortable thought that we should now have booms on our starboard for the whole distance; on our starboard, I say, for experience had taught us that all channels running parallel with the coast and islands were uniformly boomed on the northern side. Anyone less confident than Davies would have succumbed to the temptation of slavishly relying on these marks, creeping from one to the other, and wasting precious time. But Davies knew our friend the ‘boom’ and his eccentricities too well; and preferred to trust to his sense of touch, which no fog in the world could impair. If we happened to sight one, well and good, we should know which side of the channel we were on. But even this contingent advantage he deliberately sacrificed after a short distance, for he crossed over to the _south_ or unboomed side and steered and sounded along it, using the ltzendorf Flat as his handrail, so to speak. He was compelled to do this, he told me afterwards, in view of the crux, where the converging lines of booms would have involved us in irremediable confusion. Our branch was the southern one, and it followed that we must use the southern bank, and defer obtaining any help from booms until sure we were past that critical spot.

For an hour we were at the extreme strain, I of physical exertion, he of mental. I could not get into a steady swing, for little checks were constant. My right scull was for ever skidding on mud or weeds, and the backward suck of shoal water clogged our progress. Once we were both of us out in the slime tugging at the dinghy’s sides; then in again, blundering on. I found the fog bemusing, lost all idea of time and space, and felt like a senseless marionette kicking and jerking to a mad music without tune or time. The misty form of Davies as he sat with his right arm swinging rhythmically forward and back, was a clockwork figure as mad as myself, but didactic and gibbering in his madness. Then the boat-hook he wielded with a circular sweep began to take grotesque shapes in my heated fancy; now it was the antenna of a groping insect, now the crank of a cripple’s selfpropelled perambulator, now the alpenstock of a lunatic mountaineer, who sits in his chair and climbs and climbs to some phantom ‘watershed’. At the back of such mind as was left me lodged two insistent thoughts: ‘we must hurry on,’ ‘we are going wrong.’ As to the latter, take a link-boy through a London fog and you will experience the same thing: he always goes the way you think is wrong. ‘We’re rowing _back_!’ I remember shouting to Davies once, having become aware that it was now my left scull which splashed against obstructions. ‘Rubbish,’ said Davies. ‘I’ve crossed over’; and I relapsed.

By degrees I returned to sanity, thanks to improved conditions. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the state of the tide, though it threatened us with total failure, had the compensating advantage that the lower it fell the more constricted and defined became our channel; till the time came when the compass and boat-hook were alike unnecessary, because our hand-rail, the muddy brink of the channel, was visible to the eye, close to us; on our right hand always now, for the crux was far behind, and the northern side was now our guide. All that remained was to press on with might and main ere the bed of the creek dried.

What a race it was! Homeric, in effect; a struggle of men with gods, for what were the gods but forces of nature personified’? If the God of the Falling Tide did not figure in the Olympian circle he is none the less a mighty divinity. Davies left his post. and rowed stroke. Under our united efforts the dinghy advanced in strenuous leaps, hurling miniature-rollers on the bank beside us. My palms, seasoned as they were, were smarting with watery blisters. The pace was too hot for my strength and breath.

‘I must have a rest,’ I gasped.

‘Well, I think we’re over it,’ said Davies.

We stopped the dinghy dead, and he stabbed over the side with the boat-hook. It passed gently astern of us, and even my bewildered brain took in the meaning of that.

‘Three feet and the current with us. _Well_ over it,’ he said. ‘I’ll paddle on while you rest and feed.’

It was a few minutes past one and we still, as he calculated. had eight miles before us, allowing for bends.

‘But it’s a mere question of muscle,’ he said.

I took his word for it, and munched at tongue and biscuits. As for muscle, we were both in hard condition. He was fresh, and what distress I felt was mainly due to spasmodic exertion culminating in that desperate spurt. As for the fog. it had more than once shown a faint tendency to lift, growing thinner and more luminous, in the manner of fogs, always to settle down again, heavy as a quilt.

Note the spot marked ‘second rest’ (approximately correct. Davies says) and the course of the channel from that point westward. You will see it broadening and deepening to the dimensions of a great river, and finally merging in the estuary of the Ems. Note, too, that its northern boundary, the edge of the now uncovered Nordland Sand, leads, with one interruption _(marked A),_ direct to Memmert, and is boomed throughout. You will then understand why Davies made so light of the rest of his problem. Compared with the feats he had performed, it was child’s play, for he always had that visible margin to keep touch with if he chose, or to return to in case of doubt. As a matter of fact–observe our dotted line–he made two daring departures from it, the first purely to save time, the second partly to save time and partly to avoid the very awkward spot marked A, where a creek with booms and a little delta of its own interrupts the even bank. During the first of these departures–the shortest but most brilliant–he let me do the rowing, and devoted himself to the niceties of the course; during the second, and through both the intermediate stages, he rowed himself, with occasional pauses to inspect the chart. We fell into a long, measured stroke, and covered the miles rapidly, scarcely exchanging a single word till, at the end of a long pull through vacancy, Davies said suddenly;

‘Now where are we to land?’

A sandbank was looming over us crowned by a lonely boom.

‘Where are we?’

‘A quarter of a mile from Memmert.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly three.’

22 The Quartette

HIS _tour de force_ was achieved, and for the moment something like collapse set in.

‘What in the world have we come here for?’ he muttered; ‘I feel a bit giddy.’

I made him drink some whisky, which revived him; and then, speaking in whispers, we settled certain points.

I alone was to land. Davies demurred to this out of loyalty, hut common sense, coinciding with a strong aversion of his own, settled the matter. Two were more liable to detection than one. I spoke the language well, and if challenged could cover my retreat with a gruff word or two; in my woollen overalls, sea-boots, oilskin coat, with a sou’-wester pulled well over my eyes, I should pass in a fog for a Frisian. Davies must mind the dinghy; but how was I to regain it? I hoped to do so without help, by using the edge of the sand; but if he heard a long whistle he was to blow the foghorn.

‘Take the pocket-compass,’ he said. ‘Never budge from the shore without using it, and lay it on the ground for steadiness. Take this scrap of chart, too–it may come in useful; but you can t miss the depot, it looks to be close to the shore. How long will you be’?’

‘How long have I got’?’

‘The young flood’s making–has been for nearly an hour–that bank (he measured it with his eye) will be covering in an hour and a half.’

‘That ought to be enough.’

‘Don’t run it too fine. It’s steep here, but it may shelve farther on. If you have to wade you’ll never find me, and you’ll make a deuce of a row. Got your watch, matches, knife? No knife? Take mine; never go anywhere without a knife.’ (It was his seaman’s idea of efficiency.)

‘Wait a bit, we must settle a place to meet at in case I’m late and can’t reach you here.’

_

‘Don’t_ be late. We’ve got to get back to the yacht before we’re missed.’

‘But I may have to hide and wait till dark–the fog may clear.’

‘We were fools to come, I believe,’ said Davies, gloomily. ‘There _are_ no meeting-places in a place like this. Here’s the best I can see on the chart–a big triangular beacon marked on the very point of Memmert. You’ll pass it.’

‘All right. I’m off.’

‘Good luck,’ said Davies, faintly.

I stepped out, climbed a miry glacis of five or six feet, reached hard wet sand, and strode away with the sluggish ripple of the Balje on my left hand. A curtain dropped between me and Davies, and I was alone–alone, but how I thrilled to feel the firm sand rustle under my boots; to know that it led to dry land, where, whatever befell, I could give my wits full play. I clove the fog briskly.

Good Heavens! what was that? I stopped short and listened. From over the water on my left there rang out, dulled by fog, but distinct to the ear, three double strokes on a bell or gong. I looked at my watch.

‘Ship at anchor,’ I said to myself. ‘Six bells in the afternoon watch.’ I knew the Balje was here a deep roadstead, where a vessel entering the Eastern Ems might very well anchor to ride out a fog.

I was just stepping forward when another sound followed from the same quarter, a bugle-call this time. Then I understood–only men-of-war sound bugles–the Blitz was here then; and very natural, too, I thought, and strode on. The sand was growing drier, the water farther beneath me; then came a thin black ribbon of weed–high-water mark. A few cautious steps to the right and I touched tufts of marram grass. It was Memmert. I pulled out the chart and refreshed my memory. No! there could be no mistake; keep the sea on my left and I must go right. I followed the ribbon of weed, keeping it just in view, but walking on the verge of the grass for the sake of silence. All at once I almost tripped over a massive iron bar; others, a rusty network of them, grew into being above and around me, like the arms of a ghostly polyp.

‘What infernal spider’s web is this?’ I thought, and stumbled clear. I had strayed into the base of a gigantic tripod, its gaunt legs stayed and cross-stayed, its apex lost in fog; the beacon, I remembered. A hundred yards farther and I was down on my knees again, listening with might and main; for several little sounds were in the air–voices, the rasp of a boat’s keel, the whistling of a tune. These were straight ahead. More to the left. seaward, that is, I had aural evidence of the presence of a steamboat–a small one, for the hiss of escaping steam was low down. On my right front I as yet heard nothing, but the depot must be there.

I prepared to strike away from my base, and laid the compass on the ground–NW. roughly I made the course. (‘South-east–south-east for coming back,’ I repeated inwardly, like a child learning a lesson.) Then of my two allies I abandoned one, the beach, and threw myself wholly on the fog.

‘Play the game,’ I said to myself. ‘Nobody expects you; nobody will recognize you.’

I advanced in rapid stages of ten yards or so, while grass disappeared and soft sand took its place, pitted everywhere with footmarks. I trod carefully, for obstructions began to show themselves–an anchor, a heap of rusty cable; then a boat bottom upwards, and, lying on it, a foul old meerschaum pipe. I paused here and strained my ears, for there were sounds in many directions; the same whistling (behind me now), heavy footsteps in front, and somewhere beyond–fifty yards away, I reckoned–a buzz of guttural conversation; from the same quarter there drifted to my nostrils the acrid odour of coarse tobacco. Then a door banged.

I put the compass in my pocket (thinking ‘south-east, southeast’), placed the pipe between my teeth (ugh! the rank savour of it!) rammed my sou’-wester hard down, and slouched on in the direction of the door that had banged. A voice in front called, ‘Karl Schicker’; a nearer voice, that of the man whose footsteps I had heard approaching, took it up and called ‘Karl Schicker’: I, too, took it up, and, turning my back, called ‘Karl Schicker’ as gruffly and gutturally as I could. The footsteps passed quite close to me, and glancing over my shoulder I saw a young man passing, dressed very like me, but wearing a sealskin cap instead of a sou’-wester. As he walked he seemed to be counting coins in his palm. A hail came back from the beach and the whistling stopped.

I now became aware that I was on a beaten track. These meetings were hazardous, so I inclined aside, but not without misgivings, for the path led towards the buzz of talk and the banging door, and these were my only guides to the depot. Suddenly, and much before I expected it, I knew rather than saw that a wall was in front of me; now it was visible, the side of a low building of corrugated iron. A pause to reconnoitre was absolutely necessary; but the knot of talkers might have heard my footsteps, and I must at all costs not suggest the groping of a stranger. I lit a match–two–and sucked heavily (as I had seen navvies do) at my pipe, studying the trend of the wall by reference to the sounds. There was a stale dottle wedged in the bowl, and loathsome fumes resulted. Just then the same door banged again; another name, which I forget, was called out. I decided that I was at the end of a rectangular building which I pictured as like an Aldershot ‘hut’, and that the door I heard was round the corner to my left. A knot of men must be gathered there, entering it by turns. Having expectorated noisily, 1 followed the tin wall to my _right,_ and turning a corner strolled leisurely on, passing signs of domesticity, a washtub, a water-butt, then a tiled approach to an open door. I now was aware of the corner of a second building, also of zinc, parallel to the first, but taller, for I could only just see the eave. I was just going to turn off to this as a more promising field for exploration, when I heard a window open ahead of me in my original building.

I am afraid I am getting obscure, so I append a rough sketch of the scene, as I partly saw and chiefly imagined it. It was window (A) that I heard open. From it I could just distinguish through the fog a hand protrude, and throw something out–cigar-end? The hand, a clean one with a gold signet-ring, rested for an instant afterwards on the sash, and then closed the window.

{graphic Sketch here}

My geography was clear now in one respect. That window belonged to the same room as the hanging door (B); for I distinctly heard the latter open and shut again, opposite me on the other side of the building. It struck me that it might be interesting to see into that room. ‘Play the game,’ I reminded myself, and retreated a few yards back on tiptoe, then turned and sauntered coolly past the window, puffing my villainous pipe and taking a long deliberate look into the interior as I passed– the more deliberate that at the first instant I realized that nobody inside was disturbing himself about me. As I had expected (in view of the fog and the time) there was artificial light within. My mental photograph was as follows: a small room with varnished deal walls and furnished like an office; in the far right-hand corner a counting-house desk, Grimm sitting at it on a high stool, side-face to me, counting money; opposite him in an awkward attitude a burly fellow in seaman’s dress holding a diver’s helmet. In the middle of the room a deal table, and on it something big and black. Lolling on chairs near it, their backs to me and their faces turned towards the desk and the diver, two men–von Brüning and an older man with a bald yellow head (Dollmann’s companion on the steamer, beyond a doubt). On another chair, with its back actually tilted against the window, Dollmann.

Such were the principal features of the scene; for details I had to make another inspection. Stooping low, I crept back, quiet as a cat, till I was beneath the window, and, as I calculated, directly behind Dollmann’s chair. Then with great caution I raised my head. There was only one pair of eyes in the room that I feared in the least, and that was Grimm’s, who sat in profile to me, farthest away. I instantly put Dollmann’s back between Grimm and me, and then made my scrutiny. As I made it, I could feel a cold sweat distilling on my forehead and tickling my spine; not from fear or excitement, but from pure ignominy. For beyond all doubt I was present at the meeting of a _bona-fide_ salvage company. It was pay-day, and the directors appeared to be taking stock of work done; that was all.

Over the door was an old engraving of a two-decker under full sail; pinned on the wall a chart and the plan of a ship. Relics of the wrecked frigate abounded. On a shelf above the stove was a small pyramid of encrusted cannon-balls, and supported on nails at odd places on the walls were corroded old pistols, and what I took to be the remains of a sextant. In a corner of the floor sat a hoary little carronade, carriage and all. None of these things affected me so much as a pile of lumber on the floor, not firewood but unmistakable wreck-wood, black as bog-oak, still caked in places with the mud of ages. Nor was it the mere sight of this lumber that dumbfounded me. It was the fact that a fragment of it, a balk of curved timber garnished with some massive bolts, lay on the table, and was evidently an object of earnest interest. The diver had turned and was arguing with gestures over it; von Brüning and Grimm were pressing another view. The diver shook his head frequently, finally shrugged his shoulders, made a salutation, and left the room. Their movements had kept me ducking my head pretty frequently, but I now grew almost reckless as to whether I was seen or not. All the weaknesses of my theory crowded on me–the arguments Davies had used at Bensersiel; Fräulein Dollmann’s thoughtless talk; the ease (comparatively) with which I had reached this spot, not a barrier to cross or a lock to force; the publicity of their passage to Memmert by Dollmann, his friend, and Grimm; and now this glimpse of business-like routine. In a few moments I sank from depth to depth of scepticism. Where were my mines, torpedoes, and submarine boats, and where my imperial conspirators? Was gold after all at the bottom of this sordid mystery? Dollmann after all a commonplace criminal? The ladder of proof 1 had mounted tottered and shook beneath me. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the faint voice of reason. ‘There are your four men. Wait.’

Two more _employés_ came into the room in quick succession and received wages; one looking like a fireman, the other of a superior type, the skipper of a tug, say. There was another discussion with this latter over the balk of wreck-wood, and this man, too, shrugged his shoulders. His departure appeared to end the meeting. Grimm shut up a ledger, and I shrank down on my knees, for a general shifting of chairs began. At the same time, from the other side of the building, I heard my knot of men retreating beachwards, spitting and chatting as they went. Presently someone walked across the room towards my window. I sidled away on all fours, rose and flattened myself erect against the wall, a sickening despondency on me; my intention to slink away south-east as soon as the coast was clear. But the sound that came next pricked me like an electric shock; it was the tinkle and scrape of curtain-rings.

Quick as thought I was back in my old position, to find my view barred by a cretonne curtain. It was in one piece, with no chink for my benefit, but it did not hang straight, bulging towards me under the pressure of something–human shoulders by the shape. Dollmann, I concluded, was still in his old place. I now was exasperated to find that I could scarcely hear a word that was said, not even by pressing my ear against the glass. It was not that the speakers were of set purpose hushing their voices–they used an ordinary tone for intimate discussion–but the glass and curtain deadened the actual words. Still, I was soon able to distinguish general characteristics. Von Brüning’s voice–the only one I had ever heard before–I recognized at once: he was on the left of the table, and Dollmann’s I knew from his position. The third was a harsh croak, belonging to the old gentleman whom, for convenience, I shall prematurely begin to call Herr Böhme. It was too old a voice to be Grimm’s; besides, it had the ring of authority, and was dealing at the moment in sharp interrogations. Three of its sentences I caught in their entirety. ‘When was that?’ ‘They went no farther?’ and ‘Too long; out of the question.’ Dollmann’s voice, though nearest to me, was the least audible of all. It was a dogged monotone, and what was that odd movement of the curtain at his back? Yes, his hands were behind him clutching and kneading a fold of the cretonne. ‘You are feeling uncomfortable, my friend,’ was my comment. Suddenly he threw back his head–I saw the dent of it–and spoke up so that I could not miss a word. ‘Very well, sir, you shall see them at supper to-night; I will ask them both.’

(You will not be surprised to learn that I instantly looked at my watch–though it takes long to write what I have described–but the time was only a quarter to four.) He added something about the fog, and his chair creaked. Ducking promptly I heard the curtain-rings jar, and: ‘Thick as ever.’

‘Your report, Herr Dollmann,’ said Böhme, curtly. Dollmann left the window and moved his chair up to the table; the other two drew in theirs and settled themselves.

_

‘Chatham,’_ said Dollmann, as if announcing a heading. It was an easy word to catch, rapped out sharp, and you can imagine how it startled me. ‘That’s where you’ve been for the last month!’ I said to myself. A map crackled and I knew they were bending over it, while Dollmann explained something. But now my exasperation became acute, for not a syllable more reached me. Squatting back on my heels, I cast about for expedients. Should I steal round and try the door? Too dangerous. Climb to the roof and listen down the stove-pipe? Too noisy, and generally hopeless. I tried for a downward purchase on the upper half of the window, which was of the simple sort in two sections, working vertically. No use; it resisted gentle pressure, would start with a sudden jar if I forced it. I pulled out Davies’s knife and worked the point of the blade between sash and frame to give it play–no result; but the knife was a nautical one, with a marlin-spike as well as a big blade.

Just now the door within opened and shut again, and I heard steps approaching round the corner to my right. I had the presence of mind not to lose a moment, but moved silently away (blessing the deep Frisian sand) round the corner of the big parallel building. Someone whom I could not see walked past till his boots clattered on tiles, next resounded on boards. ‘Grimm in his living-room,’ I inferred. The precious minutes ebbed away–five, ten, fifteen. Had he gone for good? I dared not return otherwise. Eighteen–he was coming out! This time I stole forward boldly when the man had just passed, dimly saw a figure, and clearly enough the glint of a white paper he was holding. He made his circuit and re-entered the room.

Here I felt and conquered a relapse to scepticism. ‘If this is an important conclave why don’t they set guards?’ Answer, the only possible one, ‘Because they stand alone. Their _employés,_ like _everyone_ we had met hitherto, know nothing. The real object of this salvage company (a poor speculation, I opined) is solely to afford a pretext for the conclave.’ ‘Why the curtain, even?’ ‘Because there are maps, stupid!’

I was back again at the window, but as impotent as ever against that even stream of low confidential talk. But I would not give up. Fate and the fog had brought me here, the one solitary soul perhaps who by the chain of circumstances had both the will and the opportunity to wrest their secret from these four men.

The marlin-spike! Where the lower half of the window met the sill it sank into a shallow groove. I thrust the point of the spike down into the interstice between sash and frame and heaved with a slowly increasing force, which I could regulate to the fraction of an ounce, on this powerful lever. The sash gave, with the faintest possible protest, and by imperceptible degrees I lifted it to the top of the groove, and the least bit above it, say half an inch in all; but it made an appreciable difference to the sounds within, as when you remove your foot from a piano’s soft pedal. I could do no more, for there was no further fulcrum for the spike, and I dared not gamble away what I had won by using my hands.

Hope sank again when I placed my cheek on the damp sill, and my ear to the chink. My men were close round the table referring to papers which I heard rustle. Dollmann’s ‘report’ was evidently over, and I rarely heard his voice; Grimm’s occasionally, von Brüning’s and Böhme’s frequently; but, as before, it was the latter only that I could ever count on for an intelligible word. For, unfortunately, the villains of the piece plotted without any regard to dramatic fitness or to my interests. Immersed in a subject with which they were all familiar, they were allusive, elliptic, and persistently technical. Many of the words I did catch were unknown to me. The rest were, for the most part, either letters of the alphabet or statistical figures, of depth, distance, and, once or twice, of time. The letters of the alphabet recurred often, and seemed, as far as I could make out, to represent the key to the cipher. The numbers clustering round them were mostly very small, with decimals. What maddened me most was the scarcity of plain nouns.

To report what I heard to the reader would be impossible; so chaotic was most of it that it left no impression on my own memory. All I can do is to tell him what fragments stuck, and what nebulous classification I involved. The letters ran from A to G, and my best continuous chance came when Böhme, reading rapidly from a paper, I think, went through the letters, backwards, from G, adding remarks to each; thus: ‘G. . . completed.’ ‘F.. . bad. . . 1.3 (metres?).. .2.5 (kilometres?).’ ‘E . . . thirty-two. .. 1.2.’ ‘D. . . 3 weeks… thirty.’ ‘C.. .’and soon.

Another time he went through this list again, only naming each letter himself, and receiving laconic answers from Grimm–answers which seemed to be numbers, but I could not be sure. For minutes together I caught nothing but the scratching of pens and inarticulate mutterings. But out of the muck-heap I picked five pearls–four sibilant nouns and a name that I knew before. The nouns were ‘Schlepp-boote’ (tugs); ‘Wassertiefe’ (depth of water); ‘Eisenbahn’ (railway); ‘ (pilots). The name, also sibilant and thus easier to hear, was ‘Esens’.

Two or three times I had to stand back and ease my cramped neck, and on each occasion I looked at my watch, for I was listening against time, just as we had rowed against time. We were going to be asked to supper, and must be back aboard the yacht in time to receive the invitation. The fog still brooded heavily and the light, always bad, was growing worse. How would _they_ get back? How had they come from Juist? Could we forestall them? Questions of time, tide, distance–just the odious sort of sums I was unfit to cope with–were distracting my attention when it should have been wholly elsewhere. 4.20–4.25–now it was past 4.30 when Davies said the bank would cover. I should have to make for the beacon; but it was fatally near that steamboat path, etc., and I still at intervals heard voices from there. It must have been about 4.35 when there was another shifting of chairs within. Then someone rose, collected papers, and went out; someone else, _without_ rising (therefore Grimm), followed him.

There was silence in the room for a minute, and after that, for the first time, I heard some plain colloquial German, with no accompaniment of scratching or rustling. ‘I must wait for this,’ I thought, and waited.

‘He insists on coming,’ said Böhme.

‘Ach!’ (an ejaculation of surprise and protest from von Brüning).

‘I said the _25th_.’

‘Why?’

‘The tide serves well. The night-train, of course. Tell Grimm to be ready–‘ (An inaudible question from von Brüning.) ‘No, any weather.’ A laugh from von Brüning and some words I could not catch.

‘Only one, with half a load.’

‘. . .meet?’

‘At the station.’

‘So–how’s the fog?’

This appeared to be really the end. Both men rose and steps came towards the window. I leapt aside as I heard it thrown up, and covered by the noise backed into safety. Von Brüning called ‘Grimm!’ and that, and the open window, decided me that my line of advance was now too dangerous to retreat by. The only alternative was to make a circuit round the bigger of the two buildings–and an interminable circuit it seemed–and all the while I knew my compass-course ‘south-east’ was growing nugatory. I passed a padlocked door, two corners, and faced the void of fog. Out came the compass, and I steadied myself for the sum. ‘South-east before–I’m farther to the eastward now–east will about do’; and off I went, with an error of four whole points, over tussocks and deep sand. The beach seemed much farther off than I had thought, and I began to get alarmed, puzzled over the compass several times, and finally realized that I had lost my way. I had the sense not to make matters worse by trying to find it again, and, as the lesser of two evils, blew my whistle, softly at first, then louder. The bray of a foghorn sounded right _behind_ me. I whistled again and then ran for my life, the horn sounding at intervals. In three or four minutes I was on the beach and in the dinghy.

23 A Change of Tactics

WE pushed off without a word, and paddled out of sight of the beach. A voice was approaching, hailing us. ‘Hail back,’ whispered Davies; ‘pretend we’re a galliot.’

‘Ho-a,’ I shouted. ‘where am I?’

‘Off Memmert,’ came back. ‘Where are you bound?’

‘Delfzyl,’ whispered Davies.

‘Delf-zyl,’ I bawled.

A sentence ending with ‘anchor’ was returned.

‘The flood’s tearing east,’ whispered Davies; ‘sit still.’

We heard no more, and, after a few minutes’ drifting ‘What luck?’ said Davies.

‘One or two clues, and an invitation to supper.’

The clues I left till later; the invitation was the thing, and I explained its urgency.

‘How will _they_ get back?’ said Davies; ‘if the fog lasts the steamer’s sure to be late.’

‘We can count for nothing,’ I answered. ‘There was some little steamboat off the depot, and the fog may lift. Which is our quickest way?’

‘At this tide, a bee-line to Norderney by compass; we shall have water over all the banks.’

He had all his preparations made, the lamp lit in advance, the compass in position, and we started at once; he at the bow-oar, where he had better control over the boat’s nose; lamp and compass on the floor between us. Twilight thickened into darkness–a choking, pasty darkness–and still we sped unfalteringly over that trackless waste, sitting and swinging in our little pool of stifled orange light. To drown fatigue and suspense I conned over my clues, and tried to carve into my memory every fugitive word I had overheard.

‘What are there seven of round here?’ I called back to Davies once (thinking of A to G). ‘Sorry,’ I added, for no answer came.

‘I see a star,’ was my next word, after a long interval. ‘Now it’s gone. There it is again! Right aft!’

‘That’s Borkum light,’ said Davies, presently; ‘the fog’s lifting.’ A keen wind from the west struck our faces, and as swiftly as it had come the fog rolled away from us, in one mighty mass, stripping clean and pure the starry dome of heaven, still bright with the western after-glow, and beginning to redden in the east to the rising moon. Norderney light was flashing ahead, and Davies could take his tired eyes from the pool of light.

‘Damn!’ was all he uttered in the way of gratitude for this mercy, and I felt very much the same; for in a fog Davies in a dinghy was a match for a steamer; in a clear he lost his handicap.

It was a quarter to seven. ‘An hour’ll do it, if we buck up,’ he pronounced, after taking a rough bearing with the two lights. He pointed out a star to me, which we were to keep exactly astern, and again I applied to their labour my aching back and smarting palms.

‘What did you say about seven of something?’ said Davies.

‘What are there seven of hereabouts?’

‘Islands, of course,’ said Davies. ‘Is that the clue?’

‘Maybe.’

Then followed the most singular of all our confabulations. Two memories are better than one, and the sooner I carved the cipher into his memory as well as mine the better record we should have. So, with rigid economy of breath, I snapped out all my story, and answered his breathless questions. It saved me from being mesmerized by the star, and both of us from the consciousness of over-fatigue.

‘Spying at Chatham, the blackguard?’ he hissed.

‘What do you make of it?’ I asked.

‘Nothing about battleships, mines, forts?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Nothing about the Ems, Emden, Wilhelmshaven?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing about transports?’

‘No.’

‘I believe–I was right–after all–something to do–with the channels–behind islands.’

And so that outworn creed took a new lease of life; though for my part the words that clashed with it were those that had sunk the deepest.

‘Esens,’ I protested; ‘that town behind Bensersiel.’

‘Wassertiefe, Lotsen, Schleppboote,’ spluttered Davies.

‘Kilometre–Eisenbahn,’ from me, and so on.

I should earn the just execration of the reader if I continued to report such a dialogue. Suffice to say that we realized very soon that the substance of the plot was still a riddle. On the other hand, there was fresh scent, abundance of it; and the question was already taking shape–were we to follow it up or revert to last night’s decision and strike with what weapons we had? It was a pressing question, too, the last of many–was there to be no end to the emergencies of this crowded day?–pressing for reasons I could not define, while convinced that we must be ready with an answer by supper-time to-night.

Meantime, we were nearing Norderney; the See-Gat was crossed, and with the last of the flood tide fair beneath us, and the red light on the west pier burning ahead, we began insensibly to relax our efforts. But I dared not rest, for I was at that point of exhaustion when mechanical movement was my only hope.

‘Light astern,’ I said, thickly. ‘Two–white and red.’

‘Steamer,’ said Davies; ‘going south though.’

‘Three now.’

A neat triangle of gems–topaz, ruby, and emerald–hung steady behind us.

‘Turned east,’ said Davies. ‘Buck up–steamer from Juist. No, by Jove! too small. What is it?’

On we laboured, while the gems waxed in brilliancy as the steamer overhauled us.

‘Easy,’ said Davies, ‘I seem to know those lights–the Blitz’s launch–don’t let’s be caught rowing like madmen in a muck sweat. Paddle inshore a bit.’ He was right, and, as in a dream, I saw hurrying and palpitating up the same little pinnace that had towed us out of Bensersiel.

‘We’re done for now,’ I remember thinking, for the guilt of the runaway was strong in me; and an old remark of von Brüning’s about ‘police’ was in my ears. But she was level with and past us before I could sink far into despair.

‘Three of them behind the hood,’ said Davies: ‘what are we to do?’

‘Follow,’ I answered, and essayed a feeble stroke, but the blade scuttered over the surface.

‘Let’s waif about for a bit,’ said Davies. ‘We’re late anyhow. If they go to the yacht they’ll think we’re ashore.’

‘Our shore clothes–lying about.’

‘Are you up to talking?’

‘No; but we must. The least suspicion’ll do for us now.’

‘Give me your scull, old chap, and put on your coat.’

He extinguished the lantern, lit a pipe, and then rowed slowly on, while I sat on a slack heap in the stern and devoted my last resources of will to the emancipation of the spirit from the tired flesh.

In ten minutes or so we were rounding the pier, and there was the yacht’s top-mast against the sky. I saw, too, that the launch was alongside of her, and told Davies so. Then I lit a cigarette, and made a lamentable effort to whistle. Davies followed suit, and emitted a strange melody which I took to be ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ but he has not the slightest ear for music.

‘Why, they’re on board, I believe,’ said I; ‘the cabin’s lighted. Ahoy there!’ I shouted as we came up. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Good evening, sir,’ said a sailor, who was fending off the yacht with a boat-hook. ‘It’s Commander von Brüning’s launch. I think the gentlemen want to see you.’

Before we could answer, an exclamation of: ‘Why, here they are!’ came from the deck of the Dulcibella, and the dim form of von Brüning him self emerged from the companion-way. There was something of a scuffle down below, which the commander nearly succeeded in drowning by the breeziness of his greeting. Meanwhile, the ladder creaked under fresh weight, and Dollmann appeared.

‘Is that you, Herr Davies?’ he said.

‘Hullo! Herr Dollmann,’ said Davies; ‘how are you?’

I must explain that we had floated up between the yacht and the launch, whose sailors had passed her a little aside in order to give us room. Her starboard side-light was just behind and above us, pouring its green rays obliquely over the deck of the Dulcibella. while we and the dinghy were in deep shadow between. The most studied calculation could not have secured us more favourable conditions for a moment which I had always dreaded–the meeting of Davies and Dollmann. The former, having shortened his sculls, just sat where he was, half turned towards the yacht and looking up at his enemy. No lineament of his own face could have been visible to the latter, while those pitiless green rays–you know their ravaging effect on the human physiognomy–struck full on Dollmann’s face. It was my first fair view of it at close quarters, and, secure in my background of gloom, I feasted with a luxury of superstitious abhorrence on the livid smiling mask that for a few moments stooped peering down towards Davies. One of the caprices of the crude light was to obliterate, or at any rate so penetrate, beard and moustache, as to reveal in outline lips and chin, the features in which defects of character are most surely betrayed, especially when your victim smiles. Accuse me, if you will, of stooping to melodramatic embroidery; object that my own prejudiced fancy contributed to the result; but I can, nevertheless, never efface the impression of malignant perfidy amid base passion, exaggerated to caricature, that I received in those few instants. Another caprice of the light was to identify the man with the portrait of him when younger and clean-shaven, in the frontispiece of his own book; and another still, the most repulsively whimsical of all, was to call forth a strong resemblance to the sweet young girl who had been with us yesterday.

Enough! I shall never offend again in this way. In reality I am much more inclined to laugh than shudder over this meeting; for meanwhile the third of our self-invited guests had with stertorous puffing risen to the stage, for all the world like a demon out of a trap-door, specially when he entered the zone of that unearthly light. And there they stood in a row, like delinquents at judgement, while we, the true culprits, had only passively to accept explanations. Of course these were plausible enough. Dollmann having seen the yacht in port that morning had called on his return from Memmert to ask us to supper. Finding no one aboard, and concluding we were ashore, he had meant to leave a note for Davies in the cabin. His friend, Herr Böhme, _’the distinguished engineer’,_ was anxious to see over the little vessel that had come so far, and he knew that Davies would not mind the intrusion. Not at all, said Davies; would not they stop and have drinks? No, but would we come to supper at Dollmann’s villa? With pleasure, said Davies, but we had to change first. Up to this point we had been masters of the situation; but here von Brüning, who alone of the three appeared to be entirely at his ease, made the _retour offensif_.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘Oh, rowing about since the fog cleared,’ said Davies.

I suppose he thought that evasion would pass muster, but as he spoke, I noticed to my horror that a stray beam of light was playing on the bunch of white cotton-waste that adorned one of the rowlocks: for we had forgotten to remove these tell-tale appendages. So I added: ‘After ducks again’; and, lifting one of the guns, let the light flash on its barrel. To my own ears my voice sounded husky and distant.

‘Always ducks,’ laughed von Brüning. ‘No luck, I suppose?’

‘No,’ said Davies; ‘but it ought to be a good time after sunset–‘

‘What, with a rising tide and the banks covered?’

‘We saw some,’ said Davies, sullenly.

‘I tell you what, my zealous young sportsmen, you’re rash to leave your boat at anchor here after dark without a light. I came aboard to find your lamp and set it.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ said Davies; ‘we took it with us.’

‘To see to shoot by?’

We laughed uncomfortably, and Davies compassed a wonderful German phrase to the effect that ‘it might come in useful’. Happily the matter went no farther, for the position was a strained one at the best, and would not bear lengthening. The launch went alongside, and the invaders evacuated British soil, looking, for all von Brüning’s flippant nonchalance, a rather crestfallen party. So much so, that, acute as was my anxiety, I took courage to whisper to Davies, while the transhipment of Herr Böhme was proceeding: ‘Ask Dollmann to stay while we dress.’

‘Why?’ he whispered.

‘Go on.’

‘I say, Herr Dollmann,’ said Davies, ‘won’t you stay on board with us while we dress? There’s a lot to tell you, and–and we can follow on with you when we’re ready.’

Dollmann had not yet stepped into the launch. ‘With pleasure,’ he said; but there followed an ominous silence, broken by von Brüning.

‘Oh, come along, Dollmann, and let them alone,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’ll be horribly in the way down there, and we shall never get any supper if you keep them yarning.’

‘And it’s now a quarter-past eight o’clock,’ grumbled Herr Böhme from his corner behind the hood. Dollmann submitted, and excused himself, and the launch steamed away.

‘I think I twig,’ said Davies, as he helped, almost hoisted, me aboard. ‘Rather risky though–eh?’

‘I knew they’d object–only wanted to make sure.’

The cabin was just as we had left it, our shore clothes lying in disorder on the bunks, a locker or two half open.

‘Well, I wonder what they did down here,’ said Davies.

For my part I went straight to the bookshelf.

‘Does anything strike you about this?’ I asked, kneeling on the sofa.

‘Logbook’s shifted,’ said Davies. ‘I’ll swear it was at the end before.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Anything else?’

‘By Jove!–where’s Dollmann’s book?’

‘It’s here all right, but not where it should be.’ I had been reading it, you remember, overnight, and in the morning had replaced it in full view among the other books. I now found it behind them, in a wrenched attitude, which showed that someone who had no time to spare had pushed it roughly inwards.

‘What do you make of that?’ said Davies.

He produced long drinks, and we allowed ourselves ten minutes of absolute rest, stretched at full length on the sofas.

‘They don’t trust Dollmann,’ I said. ‘I spotted that at Memmert even.’

‘How?’

‘First, when they were talking about you and me. He was on his defence, and in a deuce of a funk, too. Böhme was pressing him hard. Again, at the end, when he left the room followed by Grimm, who I’m certain was sent to watch him. It was while he was away that the other two arranged that rendezvous for the night of the _25th._ And again just now, when you asked him to stay. I believe it’s working out as I thought it would. Von Brüning, and through him Böhme (who is the ‘engineer from Bremen’), know the story of that short cut and suspect that it was an attempt on your life. Dollmann daren’t confess to that, because, morality apart, it could only have been prompted by extreme necessity–that is, by the knowledge that you were really dangerous, and not merely an inquisitive stranger. Now we know his motive; but they don’t yet. The position of that book proves it.’

‘He shoved it in?’

‘To prevent them seeing it. There’s no earthly reason why _they_ should have hidden it.’

‘Then we’re getting on,’ said Davies. ‘That shows they know his real name, or why should he shove the book in? But they don’t know he wrote a book, and that I have a copy.’

‘At any rate he _thinks_ they don’t; we can’t say more than that.’

‘And what does he think about me–and you?’

‘That’s the point. Ten to one he’s in tortures of doubt, and would give a fortune to have five minutes’ talk alone with you to see how the land lies and get your version of the short cut incident. But they won’t let him. They want to watch him in our company and us in his; you see it’s an interesting reunion for you and him.’

‘Well, let’s get into these beastly clothes for it,’ groaned Davis. ‘I shall have a plunge overboard.’

Something drastic was required, and I followed his example, curious as the hour was for bathing.

‘I believe I know what happened just now,’ said I, as we plied rough towels in the warmth below. ‘They steamed up and found nobody on board. “I’ll leave a note,” says Dollmann. “No independent communications,” say they (or think they), “we’ll come too, and take the chance of inspecting this hornets’ nest.” Down they go, and Dollmann, who knows what to look for first, sees that damning bit of evidence staring him in the face. They look casually at the shelf among other things–examine the logbook, say–and he manages to push his own book out of sight. But he couldn’t replace it when the interruption came. The action would have attracted attention _then,_ and Böhme made him leave the cabin in advance, you know.’

‘This is all very well,’ said Davies, pausing in his toilet, ‘but do they guess how we’ve spent the day? By Jove, Carruthers, that chart with the square cut out; there it is on the rack!’

‘We must chance it, and bluff for all we’re worth,’ I said. The fact was that Davies could not be brought to realize that he had done anything very remarkable that day; yet those fourteen sinuous miles traversed blindfold, to say nothing of the return journey and my own exploits, made up an achievement audacious and improbable enough to out-distance suspicion. Nevertheless, von Brüning’s banter had been disquieting, and if an inkling of our expedition had crossed his mind or theirs, there were ways of testing us which it would require all our effrontery to defeat.

‘What are you looking for?’ said Davies. I was at the collar and stud stage, but had broken off to study the time-table which we had bought that morning.

‘Somebody insists on coming by the night train to somewhere, on the _25th_,’ I reminded him. ‘Böhme, von Brüning, and Grimm are to meet the Somebody.’

‘Where?’

‘At a railway station! I don’t know where. They seemed to take it for granted. But it must be somewhere on the sea, because Böhme said, “the tide serves.”‘

‘It may be anywhere from Emden to Hamburg.’ _[See Map B]_

‘Ho, there’s a limit; it’s probably somewhere near. Grimm was to come, and he’s at Memmert.’

‘Here’s the map… Emden and Norddeich are the only coast stations till you get to Wilhelmshaven–no, to Carolinensiel; but those are a long way east.’

‘And Emden’s a long way south. Say Norddeich then; but according to this there’s no train there after _6.15_ p.m.; that’s hardly “night”. When’s high tide on the 25th?’

‘Let’s see–8.30 here to-night–Norddeich’ll be the same. Somewhere between 10.30 and 11 on the 25th.’

‘There’s a train at Emden at 9.22 from Leer and the south, and one at 10.50 from the north.’

‘Are you counting on another fog?’ said Davies, mockingly.

‘No; but I want to know what our plans are.’

‘Can’t we wait till this cursed inspection’s over?’

‘No, we can’t; we should come to grief.’ This was no barren truism, for I was ready with a plan of my own, though reluctant to broach it to Davies.

Meanwhile, ready or not, we had to start. The cabin we left as it was, changing nothing and hiding nothing; the safest course to take, we thought, in spite of the risk of further search. But, as usual, I transferred my diary to my breast-pocket, and made sure that the two official letters from England were safe in a compartment of it.

‘What do you propose?’ I asked, when we were in the dinghy again.

‘It’s a case of “as you were”,’ said Davies. ‘To-day’s trip was a chance we shall never get again. We must go back to last night’s decision–tell them that we’re going to stay on here for a bit. Shooting, I suppose we shall have to say.’

‘And courting?’ I suggested.

‘Well, they know all about that. And then we must watch for a chance of tackling Dollmann privately. Not to-night, because we want time to consider those clues of yours.’

‘”Consider”?’ I said: ‘that’s putting it mildly.’

We were at the ladder, and what a languid stiffness oppressed me I did not know till I touched its freezing rungs, each one of which seared my sore palms like red-hot iron.

The overdue steamer was just arriving as we set foot on the quay. ‘And yet, by Jove! why not to-night?’ pursued Davies, beginning to stride up the pier at a pace I could not imitate.

‘Steady on,’ I protested; ‘and, look here, I disagree altogether. I believe to-day has doubled our chances, but unless we alter our tactics it has doubled our risks. We’ve involved ourselves in too tangled a web. I don’t like this inspection, and I fear that foxy old Böhme who prompted it. The mere fact of their inviting us shows that we stand badly; for it runs in the teeth of Brüning’s warning at Bensersiel, and smells uncommonly like arrest. There’s a rift between Dollmann and the others, but it’s a ticklish matter to drive our wedge in; as to _to-night,_ hopeless; they’re on the watch, and won’t give us a chance. And after all, do we know enough? We don’t know why he fled from England and turned German. It may have been an extraditable crime, but it may not. Supposing he defies us? There’s the girl, you see–she ties our hands, and if he once gets wind of that, and trades on our weakness, the game’s up.’

‘What are you driving at?’

‘We want to detach him from Germany, but he’ll probably go to any lengths rather than abandon his position here. His attempt on you is the measure of his interest in it. Now, is to-day to be wasted?’ We were passing through the public gardens, and I dropped on to a seat for a moment’s rest, crackling dead leaves under me. Davies remained standing, and pecked at the gravel with his toe.

‘We have got two valuable clues,’ I went on; ‘that rendezvous on the 25th is one, and the name Esens is the other. We may consider them to eternity; I vote we act on them.’

‘How?’ said Davies. ‘We’re under a searchlight here; and if we’re caught–‘

‘Your plan–ugh!–it’s as risky as mine, and more so,’ I replied, rising with a jerk, for a spasm of cramp took me. ‘We must separate,’ I added, as we walked on. ‘We want, at one stroke, to prove to them that we’re harmless, and to get a fresh start. I go back to London.’

‘To London!’ said Davies. We were passing under an arc lamp, and, for the dismay his face showed, I might have said Kamchatka.

‘Well, after all, it’s where I ought to be at this moment,’ I observed.

‘Yes, I forgot. And me?’

‘You can’t get on without me, so you lay up the yacht here–taking your time.’

‘While you?’

‘After making inquiries about Dollmann’s past I double back as somebody else, and follow up the clues.’

‘You’ll have to be quick,’ said Davies, abstractedly.

‘I can just do it in time for the 25th.’

‘When you say “making inquiries”,’ he continued, looking straight before him, ‘I hope you don’t mean setting other people on his track?’

‘He’s fair game!’ I could not help saying; for there were moments when I chafed under this scrupulous fidelity to our self-denying ordinance.

‘He’s our game, or nobody’s,’ said Davies, sharply.

‘Oh, I’ll keep the secret,’ I rejoined.

‘Let’s stick together,’ he broke out. ‘I shall make a muck of it without you. And how are we to communicate–meet?’

‘Somehow–that can wait. I know it’s a leap in the dark, but there’s safety in darkness.’

‘Carruthers! what are we talking about? If they have the ghost of a notion where we have been to-day, you give us away by packing off to London. They’ll think we know their secret and are clearing out to make use of it. _That_ means arrest, if you like!’

‘Pessimist! Haven’t I written proof of good faith in my pocket–official letters of recall, received to-day? It’s one deception the less, you see; for those letters _may_ have been opened; skilfully done it’s impossible to detect. When in doubt, tell the truth!’

‘It’s a rum thing how often it pays in this spying business,’ said Davies, thoughtfully.

We had been tramping through deserted streets under the glare of electricity, I with my leaden shuffle, he with the purposeful forward stoop and swinging arms that always marked his gait ashore.

‘Well, what’s it to be?’ I said. ‘Here’s the Schwannallée.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said he; ‘but I trust your judgement.’

We turned slowly down, running over a few last points where prior agreement was essential. As we stood at the very gate of the villa: ‘Don’t commit yourself to dates,’ I said; ‘say nothing that will prevent you from being here at least a week hence with the yacht still afloat.’ And my final word, as we waited at the door for the bell to be answered, was: ‘Don’t mind what _I_ say. If things look queer we may have to lighten the ship.’

‘Lighten?’ whispered Davies; ‘oh, I hope I shan’t bosh it.’

‘I hope I shan’t get cramp,’ I muttered between my teeth.

It will be remembered that Davies had never been to the villa before.

24 Finesse

THE door of a room on the ground floor was opened to us by a man-servant. As we entered the rattle of a piano stopped, and a hot wave of mingled scent and cigar smoke struck my nostrils. The first thing I noticed over Davies’s shoulder, as he preceded me into the room, was a woman – the source of the perfume I decided–turning round from the piano as he passed it and staring him up and down with a disdainful familiarity that I at once hotly resented. She was in evening dress, pronounced in cut and colour; had a certain exuberant beauty, not wholly ascribable to nature, and a notable lack of breeding. Another glance showed me Dollmann putting down a liqueur glass of brandy, and rising from a low chair with something of a start; and another, von Brüning, lying back in a corner of a sofa, smoking; on the same sofa, _vis-à-vis_ to him, was–yes, of course it was–Clara Dollmann; but how their surroundings alter people, I caught myself thinking. For the rest, I was aware that the room was furnished with ostentation, and was stuffy with stove-engendered warmth. Davies steered a straight course for Dollmann, and shook his hand with businesslike resolution. Then he tacked across to the sofa, abandoning me in the face of the enemy.

‘Mr–?’ said Dollmann.

‘Carruthers,’ I answered, distinctly. ‘I was with Davies in the boat just now, but I don’t think he introduced me. And now he has forgotten again,’ I added, dryly, turning towards Davies, who, having presented himself to Fräulein Dollmann, was looking feebly from her to von Brüning, the picture of tongue-tied awkwardness. (The commander nodded to me and stretched himself with a yawn.)

‘Von Brüning told me about you,’ said Dollmann, ignoring my illusion, ‘but I was not quite sure of the name. No; it was not an occasion for formalities, was it?’ He gave a sudden, mirthless laugh. I thought him flushed and excitable: yet, seen in a normal light, he was in some respects a pleasant surprise, the remarkable conformation of the head giving an impression of intellectual power and restless, almost insanely restless, energy.

‘What need?’ I said. ‘I have heard so much about you from Davies–and Commander von Brüning–that we seem to be old friends already.’

He shot a doubtful look at me, and a diversion came from the piano.

‘And now, for Heaven’s sake,’ cried the lady of the perfume, ‘let us join Herr Böhme at supper!’

‘Let me present you to my wife,’ said Dollmann.

So this was the stepmother; unmistakably German, I may add. I made my bow, and underwent much the same sort of frank scrutiny as Davies, only that it was rather more favourable to me, and ended in a carmine smile.

There was a general movement and further introductions. Davies was led to the stepmother, and I found myself confronting the daughter with quickened pulses, and a sudden sense of added complexity in the issues. I had, of course, made up my mind to ignore our meeting of yesterday, and had assumed that she would do the same. And she did ignore it–we met as utter strangers; nor did I venture (for other eyes were upon us) to transmit any sign of intelligence to her. But the next moment I was wondering if I had not fallen into a trap. She had promised not to tell, but under what circumstances? I saw the scene again; the misty flats, the spruce little sail-boat and its sweet young mistress, fresh as a dewy flower, but blanched and demoralized by a horrid fear, appealing to my honour so to act that we three should never meet again, promising to be silent, but as much in her own interest as ours, and under that implied condition which I had only equivocally refused. The condition was violated, not by her fault or ours, but violated. She was free to help her father against us, and was she helping him? What troubled me was the change in her; that she–how can I express it without offence?–was less in discord with her surroundings than she should have been; that in dress, pose and manner (as we exchanged some trivialities) she was too near reflecting the style of the other woman; that, in fact, she in some sort realized my original conception of her, so brutally avowed to Davies, so signally, as I had thought, falsified. In the sick perplexity that this discovery caused me I dare say I looked as foolish as Davies had done, and more so, for the close heat of the room and its tainted atmosphere, succeeding so abruptly to the wholesome nip of the outside air, were giving me a faintness which this moral check lessened my power to combat. Von Brüning’s face wore a sneering smile that I winced under; and, turning, I found another pair of eyes fixed on me, those of Herr Böhme, whose squat figure had appeared at a pair of folding doors leading to an adjoining room. Napkin in hand, he was taking in the scene before him with fat benevolence, but exceeding shrewdness. I instantly noticed a faint red weal relieving the ivory of his bald head; and I had suffered too often in the same quarter myself to mistake its origin, namely, our cabin doorway.

‘This is the other young explorer, Böhme,’ said von Brüning. ‘Herr Davies kidnapped him a month ago, and bullied and starved him into submission; they’ll drown together yet. I believe his sufferings have been terrible.’

‘His sufferings are over,’ I retorted. ‘I’ve mutinied–deserted–haven’t I, Davies?’ I caught Davies gazing with solemn _gaucherie_ at Miss Dollmann.

‘Oh, what?’ he stammered. I explained in English. ‘Oh, yes, Carruthers has to go home,’ he said, in his vile lingo.

No one spoke for a moment, and even von Brüning had no persiflage ready.

‘Well, are we never going to have supper?’ said madame, impatiently; and with that we all moved towards the folding doors. There had been little formality in the proceedings so far, and there was less still in the supper-room. Böhme resumed his repast with appetite, and the rest of us sat down apparently at random, though an underlying method was discernible. As it worked out, Dollmann was at one end of the small table, with Davies on his right and Böhme on his left; Frau Dollmann at the other, with me on her right and von Brüning on her left. The seventh personage, Fräulein Dollmann, was between the commander and Davies on the side opposite to me. No servants appeared, and we waited on ourselves. I have a vague recollection of various excellent dishes, and a distinct one of abundance of wine. Someone filled me a glass of champagne, and I confess that I drained it with honest avidity, blessing the craftsman who coaxed forth the essence, the fruit that harboured it, the sun that warmed it.

‘Why are you going so suddenly?’ said von Brüning to me across the table.

‘Didn’t I tell you we had to call here for letters? I got mine this morning, and among others a summons back to work. Of course I must obey.’ (I found myself speaking in a frigid silence.) ‘The annoying thing was that there were two letters, and if I had only come here two days sooner I should have only got the first, which gave me an extension.’

‘You are very conscientious. How will they know?’

‘Ah, but the second’s rather urgent.’

There was another uncomfortable silence, broken by Dollmann.

‘By the way, Herr Davies,’ he began, ‘I ought to apologize to you for–‘

This was no business of mine, and the less interest I took in it the better; so I turned to Frau Dollmann and abused the fog.

‘Have you been in the harbour all day?’ she asked, ‘then how was it you did not visit us? Was Herr Davies so shy?’ (Curiosity or malice?)

‘Quite the contrary; but I was,’ I answered coldly; ‘you see, we knew Herr Dollmann was away, and we really only called here to get my letters; besides, we did not know your address.’ I looked at Clara and found her talking gaily to von Brüning, deaf seemingly to our little dialogue.

‘Anyone would have told you it,’ said madame, raising her eyebrows.

‘I dare say; but directly after breakfast the fog came on, and–well, one cannot leave a yacht alone in a fog,’ I said, with professional solidity.

Von Brüning pricked up his ears at this. ‘I’ll be hanged if that was _your_ maxim,’ he laughed; ‘you’re too fond of the shore!’

I sent him a glance of protest, as though to say: ‘What’s the use of your warning if you won’t let me act on it?’

For, of course, my excuses were meant chiefly for his consumption, and Fräulein Dollmann’s. That the lady I addressed them to found them unpalatable was not my fault.

‘Then you sat in your wretched little cabin all day?’ she persisted.

‘All day,’ I said, brazenly; ‘it was the safest thing to do.’ And I looked again at Fräulein Dollmann, frankly and squarely. Our eyes met, and she dropped hers instantly, but not before I had learnt something; for if ever I saw misery under a mask it was on her face. No; she had not told.

I think I puzzled the stepmother, who shrugged her white shoulders, and said in that case she wondered we had dared to leave our precious boat and come to supper. If we knew Frisian fogs as well as she did–Oh, I explained, we were not so nervous as that; and as for supper on shore, if she only knew what a Spartan life we led–

‘Oh, for mercy’s sake, don’t tell me about it!’ she cried, with a grimace; ‘I hate the mention of yachts. When I think of that dreadful Medusa coming from Hamburg–‘ I sympathized with half my attention, keeping one strained ear open for developments on my right. Davies, I knew, was in the thick of it, and none too happy under Böhme’s eye, but working manfully. ‘My fault’–‘sudden squall’–‘quite safe’, were some of the phrases I caught; while I was aware, to my alarm, that he was actually drawing a diagram of something with bread-crumbs and table-knives. The subject seemed to gutter out to an awkward end, and suddenly Böhme, who was my right-hand neighbour, turned to me. ‘You are starting for England to-morrow morning?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I answered; ‘there is a steamer at 8.15, I believe.’

‘That is good. We shall be companions.’

‘Are you going to England, too, sir?’ I asked, with hot misgivings.

‘No, no! I am going to Bremen; but we shall travel together as far as–you go by Amsterdam, I suppose?–as far as Leer, then. That will be very pleasant.’ I fancied there was a ghoulish gusto in his tone.

‘Very,’ I assented. ‘You are making a short stay here, then?’

‘As long as usual. I visit the work at Memmert once a month or so, spend a night with my friend Dollmann and his charming family’ (he leered round him), ‘and return.’

Whether I was right or wrong in my next step I shall never know, but obeying a strong instinct, ‘Memmert,’ I said; ‘do tell me more about Memmert. We heard a good deal about it from Commander von Brüning; but–‘

‘He was discreet, I expect,’ said Böhme.

‘He left off at the most interesting part.’

‘What’s that about me?’ joined in von Brüning.

‘I was saying that we’re dying to know more about Memmert, aren’t we, Davies?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Davies, evidently aghast at my temerity; but I did not mind that. If he roughed my suit, so much the better; I intended to rough his.

‘You gave us plenty of history, commander, but you did not bring it up to date.’ The triple alliance laughed, Dollmann boisterously.

‘Well,’ said von Brüning; ‘I gave you very good reasons, and you acquiesced.’

‘And now he is trying to pump me,’ said Böhme, with his rasping chuckle.

‘Wait a bit, sir; I have an excuse. The commander was not only mysterious but inaccurate. I appeal to you, Herr Dollmann, for it was _apropos_ of you. When we fell in with him at Bensersiel, Davies asked him if you were at home, and he said “No.” When would you be back? Probably soon; _but he did not know when_.’

‘Oh, he said that?’ said Dollmann.

‘Well, only three days later we arrive at Norderney, and find you have returned that very day, but have gone to Memmert. Again (by the way) the mysterious Memmert! But more than ever mysterious now, for in the evening, not only you and Herr Böhme–‘

‘What penetration!’ laughed von Brüning.

‘But also Commander von Brüning, pay us a visit in _his_ launch, all coming from Memmert!’

‘And you infer?’ said von Brüning.

‘Why, that you must have known at Bensersiel–only three days ago–exactly when Herr Dollmann was coming back, having an appointment at Memmert with him for to-day.’

‘Which I wished to conceal from you?’

‘Yes, and that’s why I’m so inquisitive; it’s entirely your own fault.’

‘So it seems,’ said he, ‘with mock humility; ‘but fill your glass and go on, young man. Why should I want to deceive you?’

‘That’s just what I want to know. Come, confess now; wasn’t there something important afoot to-day at Memmert? Something to do with the gold? You were inspecting it, sorting it, weighing it? Or I know! You were transporting it secretly to the mainland?’

‘Not a very good day for that! But softly, Herr Carruthers; no fishing for admissions. Who said we had found any gold?’

‘Well, have you? There!’

‘That’s better! Nothing like candour, my young investigator. But I am afraid, having no authority, I cannot assist you at all. Better try Herr Böhme again. I’m only a casual onlooker.’

‘With shares.’

‘Ah! you remember that? (He remembers everything!) With a few shares, then; but with no expert knowledge. Now, Böhme is the consulting engineer. Rescue me, Böhme.’

‘I cannot disclaim expert knowledge,’ said Böhme, with humorous gravity; ‘but I disclaim responsibility. Now, Herr Dollmann is chairman of the company.’

‘And I,’ said Dollmann, with a noisy laugh, ‘must fall back on the shareholders, whose interests I have to guard. One can’t be too careful in these confidential matters.’

‘Here’s one who gives his consent,’ I said. ‘Can’t he represent the rest?’

‘Extorted by torture,’ said von Brüning. ‘I retract.’

‘Don’t mind them, Herr Carruthers,’ cried Frau Dollmann, ‘they are making fun of you; but I will give you a hint; no woman can keep a secret–‘

‘Ah!’ I cried, triumphantly, ‘you have been there?’

‘I? Not I; I detest the sea! But Clara has.’ Everyone looked at Clara, who in her turn looked in naive bewilderment from me to her father.

‘Indeed?’ I said, more soberly, ‘but perhaps she is not a free agent.’

‘Perfectly free!’ said Dollmann.

‘I have only been there once, some time ago,’ said she, ‘and I saw no gold at all.’

‘Guarded,’ I observed. ‘I beg your pardon; I mean that perhaps you only saw what you were allowed to see. And, in any case, the fräulein has no expert knowledge and no responsibility, and, perhaps, no shares. Her province is to be charming, not to hold financial secrets.’

‘I have done my best to help you,’ said the stepmother.

‘They’re all against us, Davies.’

‘Oh, chuck it, Carruthers!’ said Davies, in English.

‘He’s insatiable,’ said von Brüning, and there was a pause; clearly, they meant to elicit more.

‘Well, I shall draw my own conclusions,’ I said.

‘This is interesting,’ said von Brüning, ‘in what sense?’

‘It begins to dawn on me that you made fools of us at Bensersiel. Don’t you remember, Davies, what an interest he took in all our doings? I wonder if he feared our exploring propensities might possibly lead us to Memmert?’

‘Upon my word, this is the blackest ingratitude. I thought I made myself particularly agreeable to you.’

‘Yes, indeed; especially about the duck shooting! How useful your local man would have been–both to us and to you!’

‘Go on,’ said the commander, imperturbably.

‘Wait a moment; I’m thinking it out.’ And thinking it out I was in deadly earnest, for all my levity, as I pressed my hand on my burning forehead and asked myself where I was to stop in this seductive but perilous fraud. To carry it too far was to court complete exposure; to stop too soon was equally compromising.

‘What is he talking about, and why go on with this ridiculous mystery?’ said Frau Dollmann.

‘I was thinking about this supper party, and the way it came about,’ I pursued, slowly.

‘Nothing to complain of, I hope?’ said Dollmann.

‘Of course not! Impromptu parties are always the pleasantest, and this one was delightfully impromptu. Now I bet you I know its origin! Didn’t you discuss us at Memmert? And didn’t one of you suggest–‘One would almost think you had been there,’ said Dollmann. ‘You may thank your vile climate that we weren’t,’ I retorted, laughing. ‘But, as I was saying, didn’t one of you suggest–which of you? Well, I’m sure it wasn’t the commander–‘

‘Why not?’ said Böhme.

‘It’s difficult to explain–an intuition, say–I am sure he stood up for us; and I don’t think it was Herr Dollmann, because he knows Davies already, and he’s always on the spot; and, in short I’ll swear it was Herr Böhme, who is leaving early to-morrow. and had never seen either of us. It was you, sir, who proposed that we should be asked to supper to-night–for inspection?’

‘Inspection?’ said Böhme; ‘what an extraordinary idea!’

‘You can’t deny it, though! And one thing more; in the harbour just now–no–this is going too far; I shall mortally offend you.’ I gave way to hearty laughter.

‘Come, let’s have it. Your hallucinations are diverting.’

‘If you insist; but this is rather a delicate matter. You know we were a little surprised to find you _all_ on board; and you, Herr Böhme, did you always take such a deep interest in small yachts? I am afraid that it was at a certain sacrifice of comfort that you _inspected_ ours!’ And I glanced at the token he bore of his encounter with our lintel. There was a burst of pent-up merriment. in which Dollmann took the loudest share.

‘I warned you, Böhme,’ he said.

The engineer took the joke in the best possible part. ‘We owe you apologies,’ he conceded.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Davies.

_

‘He_ doesn’t mind,’ I said; ‘I’m the injured one. I’m sure you never suspected Davies, who could?’ (Who indeed? I was on firm ground there.)

‘The point is, what did you take _me_ for?’

‘Perhaps we take you for it still,’ said von Brüning.

‘Oho! Still suspicious? Don’t drive me to extremities.’

‘What extremities?’

‘When I get back to London I shall go to Lloyd’s! I haven’t forgotten that flaw in the title.’ There was an impressive silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Dollmann, with exaggerated solemnity, ‘we must come to terms with this formidable young man. What do you say?’

‘Take me to Memmert,’ I exclaimed. ‘Those are my terms!’

‘Take you to Memmert? But I thought you were starting for England to-morrow?’

‘I ought to; but I’ll stay for that.’

‘You said it was urgent. Your conscience is very elastic.’

‘That’s my affair. Will you take me to Memmert?’

‘What do you say, gentlemen?’ Böhme nodded. ‘I think we owe some reparation. Under promise of absolute secrecy, then?’

‘Of course, now that you trust me. But you’ll show me everything–honour bright–wreck, depot, and all?’

‘Everything; if you don’t object to a diver’s dress.’

‘Victory!’ I cried, in triumph. ‘We’ve won our point, Davies. And now, gentlemen, I don’t mind saying that as far as I am concerned the joke’s at an end; and, in spite of your kind offer, I must start for England to-morrow’ under the good Herr Böhme’s wing. And in case my elastic conscience troubles you (for I see you think me a weather-cock) here are the letters received this morning, establishing my identity as a humble but respectable clerk in the British Civil Service, summoned away from his holiday by a tyrannical superior.’ (I pulled out my letters and tossed them to Dollmann.) ‘Ah, you don’t read English easily, perhaps? I dare say Herr Böhme does.’

Leaving Böhme to study dates, post-marks, and contents to his heart’s content, and unobserved, I turned to sympathize with my fair neighbour, who complained that her head was going round; and no wonder. But at this juncture, and very much to my surprise, Davies struck in.

‘I should like to go to Memmert,’ he said.

‘You?’ said von Brüning. ‘Now I’m surprised at that.’

‘But you won’t be staying here either, Davies,’ I objected.

‘Yes, I shall,’ said Davies. ‘Why, I told you I should. If you leave me in the lurch like this I must have time to look round.’

‘You needn’t pretend that you cannot sail alone,’ said von Brüning.

‘It’s much more fun with two; I think I shall wire for another friend. Meanwhile, I should like to see Memmert.’

‘That’s only an excuse, I’m afraid,’ said I.

‘I want to shoot ducks too,’ pursued Davies, reddening. ‘I always have wanted to; and you promised to help in that, commander.’

‘You can’t get out of it now,’ I laughed.

‘Certainly not,’ said he, unmoved; ‘but, honestly, I should advise Herr Davies, if he is ever going to get home this season, to make the best of this fine weather.’

‘It’s too fine,’ said Davies; ‘I prefer wind. If I cannot get a friend I think I shall stop cruising, leave the yacht here, and come back for her next year.

There was some mute telegraphy between the allies.

‘You can leave her in my charge,’ said Dollmann, ‘and start with your friend to-morrow.’

‘Thanks; but there is no hurry,’ said Davies, growing redder than ever. ‘I like Norderney–and we might have another sail in your dinghy, fräulein,’ he blurted out.

‘Thank you,’ she said, in that low dry voice I had heard yesterday; ‘but I think I shall not be sailing again–it is getting too cold.’

‘Oh, no!’ said Davies, ‘it’s splendid.’ But she had turned to von Brüning, and took no notice.

‘Well, send me a report about Memmert, Davies,’ I laughed, with the idea of drawing attention from his rebuff. But Davies, having once delivered his soul, seemed to have lost his shyness, and only gazed at his neighbour with the placid, dogged expression that I knew so well. That was the end of those delicate topics; and conviviality grew apace.

I am not indifferent at any time to good wine and good cheer, nor was it for lack of pressing that I drank as sparingly as I was able, and pretended to a greater elation than I felt. Nor certainly was it from any fine scruples as to the character of the gentleman whose hospitality we were receiving–scruples which I knew affected Davies, who ate little and drank nothing. In any case he was adamant in such matters, and I verily believe would at any time have preferred our own little paraffin-flavoured messes to the best dinner in the world. It was a very wholesome caution that warned me not to abuse the finest brain tonic ever invented by the wit of man. I had finessed Memmert, as one finesses a low card when holding a higher; but I had too much respect for our adversaries to trade on any fancied security we had won thereby. They had allowed me to win the trick, but I credited them with a better knowledge of my hand than they chose to show. On the other hand I hugged the axiom that in all conflicts it is just as fatal to underrate the difficulties of your enemy as to overrate your own. Their chief one–and it multiplied a thousandfold the excitement of the contest–was, I felt sure, the fear of striking in error; of using a sledge-hammer to break a nut. In breaking it they risked publicity, and publicity, I felt convinced, was death to their secret. So, even supposing they had detected the finesse, and guessed that we had in fact got wind of imperial designs; yet, even so, I counted on immunity so long as they thought we were on the wrong scent, with Memmert, and Memmert alone, as the source of our suspicions.

Had it been necessary I was prepared to encourage such a view, admitting that the cloth von Brüning wore had made his connexion with Memmert curious, and had suggested to Davies, for I should have put it on him, with his naval enthusiasms, that the wreck-works were really naval-defence works. If they went farther, and suspected that we had tried to go to Memmert that very day, the position was worse, but not desperate; for the fear that they would take the final step and suppose that we had actually got there and overhead their talk, I flatly refused to entertain, until I should find myself under arrest.

Precisely how near we came to it I shall never rightly know; but I have good reason to believe that we trembled on the verge. The main issue was fully enough for me, and it was only in passing flashes that I followed the play of the warring under-currents. And yet, looking back on the scene, I would warrant there was no party of seven in Europe that evening where a student of human documents would have found so rich a field, such noble and ignoble ambitions, such base and holy fears, aye, and such pitiful agonies of the spirit. Roughly divided though we were into separate camps, no two of us were wholly at one. Each wore a mask in the grand imposture; excepting, I am inclined to think, the lady on my left, who, outside her own well-being, which she cultivated without reserve, had, as far as I could see, but one axe to grind–the intimacy of von Brüning and her stepdaughter–and ground it openly.

Not even Böhme and von Brüning were wholly at one; and as moral distances are reckoned, Davies and I were leagues apart. Sitting between Dollmann and Dollmann’s daughter, the living and breathing symbols of the two polar passions he had sworn to harmonize, he kept an equilibrium which, though his aims were nominally mine, I could not attain to. For me the man was the central figure; if I had attention to spare it was on him that I bestowed it; groping disgustfully after his hidden springs of action, noting the evidences of great gifts squandered and prostituted; questioning where he was most vulnerable; whom he feared most, us or his colleagues; whether he was open to remorse or shame; or whether he meditated further crime. The girl was incidental. After the first shock of surprise I had soon enough discovered that she, like the rest, had assumed a disguise; for she was far too innocent to sustain the deception; and yesterday was fresh in my memory. I was forced to continue turning her assumed character to account; but it would be pharisaical in me to say that I rose to any moral heights in her regard–wine and excitement had deadened my better nature to that extent. I thought she looked prettier than ever, and, as time passed, I fell into a cynical carelessness about her. This glimpse of her home life, and the desperate expedients to which she was driven (whether by compulsion or from her own regard for Davies) to repel and dismiss him, did not strike me as they might have done as the crowning argument in favour of the course we had adopted the night before, that of compassing our end without noise and scandal, disarming Dollmann, but aiding him to escape from the allies he had betrayed. To Davies, the man, if not a pure abstraction, was at most a noxious vermin to be trampled on for the public good; while the girl, in her blackguardly surroundings, and with her sinister future, had become the very source of his impulse.

And the other players? Böhme was _my_ abstraction, the fortress whose foundations we were sapping, the embodiment of that systematized force which is congenital to the German people. In von Brüning, the personal factor was uppermost. Callous as I was this evening, I could not help wondering occasionally, as he talked and laughed with Clara Dollmann, what in his innermost thoughts, knowing her father, he felt and meant. It is a point I cannot and would not pursue, and, thank Heaven, it does not matter now; yet, with fuller knowledge of the facts, and, I trust, a mellower judgement, I often return to the same debate, and, by I know not what illogical bypaths, always arrive at the same conclusion, that I liked the man and like him still.

We behaved as sportsmen in the matter of time, giving them over two hours to make up their minds about us. It was only when tobacco smoke and heat brought back my faintness, and a twinge of cramp warned me that human strength has limits, that I rose and said we must go; that I had to make an early start to-morrow. I am hazy about the farewells, but I think that Dollmann was the most cordial, to me at any rate, and I augured good therefrom. Böhme said he should see me again. Von Brüning, though bound for the harbour also, considered it was far too early to be going yet, and said good-bye.

‘You want to talk us over,’ I remember saying, with the last flicker of gaiety I could muster.

We were in the streets again, under a silver, breathless night; dizzily footing the greasy ladder again; in the cabin again, where I collapsed on a sofa just as I was, and slept such a deep and stringent sleep that the men of the Blitz’s launch might have handcuffed and trussed and carried me away, without incommoding me in the least.

25 I Double Back

‘GOOD-BYE, old chap,’ called Davies.

‘Good-bye,’ the whistle blew and the ferry-steamer forged ahead, leaving Davies on the quay, bareheaded and wearing his old Norfolk jacket and stained grey flannels, as at our first meeting in Flensburg station. There was no bandaged hand this time, but he looked pinched and depressed; his eyes had black circles round them; and again I felt that same indefinable pathos in him.

‘Your friend is in low spirits,’ said Böhme, who was installed on a seat beside me, voluminously caped and rugged against the biting air. It was a still, sunless day.

‘So am I,’ I grunted, and it was the literal truth. I was only half awake, felt unwashed and dissipated, heavy in head and limbs. But for Davies I should never have been where I was. It was he who had patiently coaxed me out of my bunk, packed my bag, fed me with tea and an omelette (to which I believe he had devoted peculiarly tender care), and generally mothered me for departure. While I swallowed my second cup he was brushing the mould and smoothing the dents from my felt hat, which had been entombed for a month in the sail-locker; working at it with a remorseful concern in his face. The only initiative I am conscious of having shown was in the matter of my bag. ‘Put in my sea clothes, oils, and all,’ I had said; ‘I may want them again.’ There was mortal need of a thorough consultation, but this was out of the question. Davies did not badger or complain, but only timidly asked me how we were to meet and communicate, a question on which my mind was an absolute blank.

‘Look out for me about the 26th,’ I suggested feebly.

Before we left the cabin he gave me a scrap of pencilled paper and saw that it went safely into my pocket-book. ‘Look at it in the train,’ he said.

Unable to cope with Böhme, I paced the deck aimlessly as we swung round the See-Gat into the Buse Tief, trying to identify the point where we crossed it yesterday blindfold. But the tide was full, and the waters blank for miles round till they merged in haze. Soon I drifted down into the saloon, and crouching over a stove pulled out that scrap of paper. In a crabbed, boyish hand, and much besmudged with tobacco ashes, I found the following notes:

(1) _Your journey_. [See Maps A and B.] Norddeich 8.58, Emden 10.32, Leer 11.16 (Böhme changes for Bremen), Rheine 1.8 (change), Amsterdam 7.17 p.m. Leave again _via_ Hook 8.52, London 9 am.

(2) The coast-station–_their_ rondezvous–querry is it Norden? (You pass it 9.13)–there is a tidal creek up to it. High-water there on 25th, say 10.30 to 11 p.m. It cannot be Norddeich, which I find has a dredged-out low-water channel for the steamer, so tide ‘serves’ would not apply.

(3) _Your other clews_ (tugs, pilots, depths, railway, Esens, seven of something). Querry; Scheme of defence by land and sea for North Sea Coast?

_

Sea_–7 islands, 7 channels between (counting West Ems), very small depths (what you said) in most of them. Tugs and pilots for patrol work behind islands, as I always said. Querry; Rondezvous is for inspecting channels?

_

Land_–Look at railway (map in ulster pocket) running in a loop all round Friesland, a few miles from coast. Querry: To be used as line of communication for army corps. Troops could be quickly sent to any threatened point. _Esens_ the base? It is in top centre of loop. Von Brooning dished us fairly over that at Bensersiel.

_

Chatham_–D. was spying after our naval plans for war with Germany.

Von Brooning runs naval part over here.

Where does Burmer come in? Querry–you go to Breman and find out about him?

I nodded stupidly over this document–so stupidly that I found myself wondering whether Burmer was a place or a person. Then I dozed, to wake with a violent start and find the paper on the floor. Panic-stricken, I hid it away, and went on deck, when I found we were close to Norddeich, running up to the bleakest of bleak jetties thrown out from the dyke-bound polders of the mainland. Böhme and I landed together, and he was at my elbow as I asked for a ticket for Amsterdam, and was given one as far as Rheine, a junction near the Dutch frontier. He was ensconced in an opposite corner to me in the railway carriage, looking like an Indian idol. ‘Where do you come in?’ I pondered, dreamily. Too sleepy to talk, I could only blink at him, sitting bolt upright with my arms folded over my precious pocket-book. Finally, I gave up the struggle, buttoned my ulster tightly up, and turning my back upon him with an apology, lay down to sleep, the precious pocket nethermost. He was at liberty to rifle my bag if he chose, and I dare say he did. I cannot say, for from this point till Rheine, for the best part of four hours, that is, I had only two lucid intervals.

The first was at Emden, where we both had to change. Here, as we pushed our way down the crowded platform, Böhme, after being greeted respectfully by several persons, was at last buttonholed without means of escape by an obsequious gentleman, whose description is of no moment, but whose conversation is. It was about a canal; what canal I did not gather, though, from a name dropped, I afterwards identified it as one in course of construction as a feeder to the Ems. The point is that the subject was canals. At the moment it was seed dropped in unreceptive soil, but it germinated later. I passed on, mingling with the crowd, and was soon asleep again in another carriage where Böhme this time did not follow me.

The second occasion was at Leer, where I heard myself called by name, and woke to find him at the window. He had to change trains, and had come to say good-bye. ‘Don’t forget to go to Lloyd’s,’ he grated in my ear. I expect it was a wan smile that I returned, for I was at a very low ebb, and my fortress looked sarcastically impregnable. But the sapper was free; ‘free’ was my last conscious thought.

Even after Rheine, where I changed for the last time, a brutish drowsiness enchained me, and the afternoon was well advanced before my faculties began to revive.

The train crept like a snail from station to station. I might, so a fellow-passenger told me, have waited three hours at Rheine for an express which would have brought me to Amsterdam at about the same time; or, if I had chosen to break the journey farther back, two hours at either Emden or Leer would still have enabled me to catch the said express at Rheine. These alternatives had escaped Davies, and, I surmised, had been suppressed by Böhme, who doubtless did not want me behind him, free either to double back or to follow him to Bremen.

The pace, then, was execrable, and there were delays; we were behind time at Hengelo, thirty minutes late at Apeldoorn; so that I might well have grown nervous about my connexions at Amsterdam, which were in some jeopardy. But as I battled out of my lethargy and began to take account of our position and prospects, quite a different thought at the outset affected me. Anxiety to reach London was swamped in reluctance to quit Germany, so that I found myself grudging every mile that I placed between me and the frontier. It was the old question of urgency. To-day was the 23rd. The visit to London meant a minimum absence of forty-eight hours, counting from Amsterdam; that is to say, that by travelling for two nights and one day, and devoting the other day to investigating Dollmann’s past, it was humanly possible for me to be back on the Frisian coast on the evening of the 25th. Yes, I could be at Norden, if that was the ‘rendezvous’, at 7 p.m. But what a scramble! No margin for delays, no physical respite. Some pasts take a deal of raking up–other persons may be affected; men are cautious, they trip you up with red tape; or the man who knows is out at lunch–a protracted lunch; or in the country–a protracted week-end. Will you see Mr So-and-so, or leave a note? Oh! I know those public departments–from the inside! And the Admiralty! … I saw myself baffled and racing back the same night to Germany, with two days wasted, arriving, good for nothing, at Norden,