 CHAPTER XX. THE LITTLE DRAB book. I found Davis at the cabin table, surrounded with the litter of books. The shelf was empty, and its contents were tossed about among the cups and on the floor. We both spoke together. Well, what was it? Well, what did she say? I gave way, and told my story briefly. He listened in silence, drumming on the table with the book which he held. It's not good-bye, he said. But I don't wonder. Look here. And he held out to me a small volume, whose appearance was quite familiar to me, if its contents were less so. As I noted in an early chapter, Davis's library, including tied tables, pilots, etc., was limited to two classes of books, those on naval warfare and those on his own hobby, cruising and small yachts. He had six or seven of the latter, including Knight's Forken in the Baltic, Culper's Sailing Tours, McMullen's Down Channel, and other less known stories of adventurous travel. I had scarcely done more than look into some of them at off moments, for our life had left no leisure for reading. This particular volume was, no, I had better not describe it too fully, but I will say that it was old and unpretentious, bound in cheap cloth of a rather antiquated style, with the title which showed it to be a guide for yachtsmen to a certain British estuary. A white label partly scratched away bore the legend 3D. I had glanced at it once or twice, with no special interest. Well, I said, turning over some yellow pages. Dolman! cried Davis. Dolman wrote it. I turned to the title page and read, by Lieutenant X. R. N. The name itself conveyed nothing to me, but I began to understand. Davis went on. The name's on the back, too, and I'm certain it's the last she looked at. But how do you know? And there's the man himself. Ask that I am not to have seen it before. Look at the frontispiece. It was a sorry piece of illustration of the old-fashioned sort, lacking definition and finish, but effective notwithstanding, for it was evidently the reproduction through a cheap and imperfect process of a photograph. It represented a small yacht at anchor below some woods, with the owner standing on deck in his shirt sleeves, a well-knit, powerful man, young, of middle height, clean shaved. There appeared to be nothing remarkable about the face, the portrait being on too small a scale, and the expression, such as it was, being of the fixed, photographic character. How do you know him? You said he was fifty with a grayish beard. By the shape of his head that hasn't changed. Look how it widens at the top and then flattens, sort of wedge-shaped, with the highest deep forehead. You'd hardly notice it in that. The points were not very noticeable, but I saw what Davis meant. The height and figure are right, too, and the dates are about right. Look at the bottom. Underneath the picture was the name of a yacht and a date. The publisher's date on the title page was the same. Sixteen years ago, said Davis, he looks thirty-odd in that, doesn't he? And fifty now. Let's work the thing out. Sixteen years ago he was still an Englishman, an officer and her Majesty's navy. Now he's a German. At some time between this and then, I suppose, he came to grief. Disgrace, flight, exile. When did it happen? They've been here three years, von Brunning said so. It was long before that. She has talked German from a child. What's her age, do you think, ninety or twenty? About that. Say she was four when this book was published. The crash must have come not long after. And they've been hiding in Germany since. Is this a well-known book? I never saw another copy. I picked this up in a second-hand bookstore for threepens. She looked at it, you say? Yes, I'm certain of it. Was she never on board you in September? No, I asked them both, but Dolman made excuses. But he, he came on board, he told me so. Once, he asked himself to breakfast on the first day, by Jove. Yes, you mean he saw the book? It explains a great deal. It explains everything. We fell into deep reflection for a minute or two. Do you really mean everything? I said. In that case, let's sail straight away and forget the whole affair. He's only some poor devil with a past, whose secret you stumbled on, and half mad with fear he tried to silence you. But you don't want revenge, so it's no business of ours. We can ruin him if we like, but is it worth it? You don't mean the word you're saying, said Davis, though I know why you say it, and many thanks, old chap. I didn't mean everything. He's plotting with Germans, or why did Grimm spy on us and von Bruning cross-examine us? We've got to find out what he's at, as well as who he is. And as to her, what do you think of her now? I made my amend heartily. Innocent and ignorant was my verdict. Ignorant, that is, of her father's reasonable machinations, but aware clearly that they were English refugees with a past to hide. I said other things, but they do not matter. Only, I concluded, it makes the dilemma infinitely worse. There's no dilemma at all, said Davis. He said it bends the seal that we couldn't hurt him without hurting her. Well, all I can say is we've got to. The time to cut and run, if ever, was when we cited her dingy. I had a badish minute then. She's given us a clue, a two after all. It wasn't our fault. To refuse to have her on board would have been to give our show away, and the very fact that she's given us clues decides the matter. She mustn't suffer for it. What will she do? Stick to her father, I suppose. And what shall we do? I don't know yet. How can I know? It depends, said Davis slowly. But the point is, we have two objects, equally important. Yes, equally by Jove, to scotch him and save her. There was a pause. That's rather a large order, I observed. Do you realise that at this very moment we have probably gained the first object? If we went home now, walked into the Admiralty, and laid our facts before them, what would be the result? The Admiralty, said Davis, with ineffable scorn. Well, Scotland Yard then, too. Both of them want our man, I dare say. It would be strange if between them they couldn't dislodge him, and, incidentally, either discover what's going on here, or draw such attention to this bit of coast as to make further secrecy impossible. It's out of the question to let her betray her father and then run away. Besides, we don't know enough, and they might not believe us. It's a cowardly course, however you look at it. Oh, that settled it, I answered hastily. Now I want to go back over the facts. When did you first see her? That first morning. She wasn't in the saloon the night before? No, and he didn't mention her. You would have gone away next morning if he hadn't called. Yes, I told you so. He allowed her to persuade you to make that voyage with them. I suppose so. But he sent her below when the pilotage was going on? Of course. She said just now, Father said you would be safe. What had you been saying to her? It was when I met her on the sand. By the way, it wasn't a chance meeting. She had been making inquiries and heard about us from a skipper who had seen the yacht near Wangeroog, and she had been down this way before. She asked at once about that day, and began apologising, rather awkwardly, you know, for their rudeness and not having waited for me at Cuxhaven. Her father found he must get on to Hamburg at once. But you didn't go to Cuxhaven, you told her that? What exactly did you tell her? This is important. I was in a fearful fix, not knowing what he had told her. So I said something vague, and then she asked the very question von Bruning did. Wasn't there a shreklik sea round the shahorn? She didn't know you took the short cut then? No, he hadn't dared to tell her. She knew that they took it. Yes, he couldn't possibly have hidden that. She would have known by the look of the sea from the portholes, the shorter time, etc. But when the Medusa Hove too, and he shouted to you to follow him, didn't she understand what was happening? No, evidently not. Mind you, she couldn't possibly have heard what we said in that weather from below. I couldn't cross-question her, but it was clear enough what she thought, namely, that he had Hove too for exactly the opposite reason, to say he was taking the short cut, and that I wasn't to attempt to follow him. That's why she laid stress on waiting for you at Cuxhaven. Of course, mine would have been the longer passage. She had no notion of foul play. None that I could see. After all, there I was, alive and well. But she was remorseful for having induced you to sail at all that day, and for not having waited to see you arrived safely. That's about it. Now, what did you say about Cuxhaven? Nothing. I let her understand that I went there, and not finding them, went on to the Baltic by the Ida River, having changed my mind about the ship canal. Now, what about her voyage back from Hamburg? Was she alone? No, the stepmother joined her. Did she say she had inquired about you at Brunsputl? No, I suppose she didn't like to. And there was no need, because my taking the Ida explained it. I reflected. You're sure she hadn't a notion that you took the shortcut? Quite sure, but she may guess it now. She guessed foul play by seeing that book. Of course she did, but I was thinking of something else. There are two stories afloat now, yours to von Bruning, the true one, that you followed the Medusa to the shortcut. And Dolmans to her, that you went round the Chahorn. That's evidently his version of the affair, the version he would have given if you had been drowned and inquiries were ever made, the version he would have sworn his crew to if they discovered the truth. But he must drop that yarn when he knows I'm alive and back again. Yes, but meanwhile, supposing von Bruning sees him before he knows you're back again, and wants to find out the truth about that incident, if I were von Bruning I should say, by the way, what's become of that young Englishman you decoyed away to the Baltic? Dolman would give his version, and von Bruning, having heard ours, would know he was lying, and had tried to drown you. Does it matter? He must know already that Dolmans is scoundrel. So we've been supposing, but we may be wrong. We are still in the dark as to Dolmans positioned towards these Germans. They may not even know his English, or they may know that and not know his real name and past. What effect your story will have on their relations with him we can't forecast. But I'm clear about one thing, that it's our paramount interest to maintain the status quo as long as we can, to minimise the danger you ran that day, and act as witnesses in his defence. We can't do that if his story and yours don't tally. The discrepancy will not only damn him, that may be immaterial, but it will throw doubt on us. Why? Because if the shortcut was so dangerous that he dared not own to having led you to it, it was dangerous enough to make you suspect foul play, the very supposition we want to avoid. We want to be thought mere travellers, with no scores to wipe out, and no secrets to pry after. Well, what do you propose? Here the two I believe we stand fairly well. Let's assume we hoodwinked from ruining at Benzazil and base our policy on that assumption. It follows that we must show Dolman at the earliest possible moment that you have come back, and give him time to revise his tactics before he commits himself. Now, but she'll tell him we're back, interrupted Davis. I don't think so. We've just agreed to keep this afternoon's episode a secret. She expects never to see us again. Now he comes to-morrow by the morning boat, she said. What did that mean, boat from where? I know, from Norddeich to the mainland opposite. There's a railway there from Norden, and the steam ferry crosses to the island. At what time? Your branch all will tell us, here it is, winter service, 8.30 am, due at 9.05. Let's get away at once. We heard a tussle with the tide at first, but once over the water shed the channel improved, and the haze lightened gradually. A lighthouse appeared among the sand dunes on the island shore, and before darkness fell we dimly saw the spires and roofs of a town. And two long black piers stretching out southwards. We were scarcely a mile away when we lost our wind altogether, and had to anchor. Determined to reach our destination that night, we waited till the ebb stream made, and then towed the yacht with a dinghy. In the course of this a fog dropped on us suddenly, just as it had yesterday. I was towing at the time, and of course stopped short, but Davis shouted to me from the tiller to go on, that he could manage with the lead and compass. And the end of it was that, at about nine o'clock, we anchored safely in the five-fathom roadstead, close to the eastern pier, as a short reconnaissance proved to us. It had been a little masterpiece of a droid seamanship. There was utter stillness till our chain rattled down, when a muffled shout came from the direction of the pier, and soon we had a boat groping out to us. It was a polite but sleepy port officer, who asked in a perfunctory way for our particulars, and when he heard them, remembered the D'Alsabella's previous visit. Where are you bound to? he asked. England sooner or later, said Davis. The man laughed derisively. Not this year, he said, there would be fogs for another week. It is always so, and then storms. Better leave you all here. Dues will be only sixpence a month for you. I'll think about it, said Davis. Good night. The man vanished like a ghost in the sick night. Is the post office open? I called after him. No, ate to-morrow, came back out of the fog. We were too excited to sup in comfort, or sleep in peace, or do anything but plan and speculate. Never till this night had we talked with absolute mutual confidence, for Davis broke down the last barriers of reserve, and let me see his whole mind. He loved this girl, and he loved his country. Two simple passions, which for the time absorbed his whole moral capacity. There was no room left for casuistry. To weigh one passion against the other, with the discordant voices of honour and expediency dinning in his ears, had too long involved him in fruitless torture. Both were right, neither could be surrendered. If the facts showed them irreconcilable, tompee pour l'effet. A way must be found to satisfy both, or neither. I should have been a spiritless dog if I had not risen to his mood. But in truth, his cutting of the knot was at this juncture exactly what appealed to me. I too was tired of vicarious casuistry, and the fascination of our enterprise, intensified by the discovery of that afternoon, had never been so strong in me. Not to be insincere, I cannot pretend that I viewed the situation with his single mind. My philosophy, when I left London, was of a very worldly thought, and no one can change his temperament in three weeks. I plainly said as much to Davis, and indeed took perverse satisfaction in stating with brutal emphasis some social truths which bore on this attachment of his to the daughter of an outlaw. Truths, I call them, but I uttered them more by rote than by conviction, and he heard them unmoved. And meanwhile I snatched recklessly at his own solution. If it imparted into our adventure a strain of crazy chivalry, more suited to night's errand of the middle ages than to sober modern youths, well, thank heaven I was not too sober and still young enough to snatch at that fancy with an ardour of imagination, if not of character. Perhaps too of character, for Galahad's are not so common, but that ordinary folk must need straw carriage from their example and put something of a blind trust in their tenfold strength. To reduce a romantic ideal to a working plan is a very difficult thing. We shall have to argue backwards, I said. What is to be the final stage, because that must govern the others. There was only one answer, to get Dolman, secrets and all, daughter and all, away from Germany altogether, so only could we satisfy the double aim we had set before us. What a joy it is, when beset with doubts, to find a bedrock necessity, however unattainable. We fastened on this one and reasoned back from it. The first lesson was that however many and strong were the enemies we had to contend with, our soul overt foe must be Dolman. The issue of the struggle must be known only to ourselves and him. If we won and found out what he was at, we must at all costs conceal our success from his German friends and detach him from them before he was compromised. You will remark that to wisely accept this limitation showed a very sanguine spirit in us. The next question, how to find out what he was at, was a deal more thorny. If it had not been for the discovery of Dolman's identity, we should have found it as hard a nut to crack as ever. But this discovery was illuminating. It threw into relief two methods of action which hitherto we had been hazzly seeking to combine, seesawing between one and the other, each of us influenced at different times by different motives. One was to rely on independent research, the other to extort the secret from Dolman Direct, by craft or threats. The moral of today was to abandon the first and embrace the second. The prospects of independent research were not a bit better than before. There were only two theories in this field, the channel theory and the memet theory. The formal anguished for lack of corroboration, the latter also appeared to be weakened. To Froland Dolman the rec works were evidently what they purported to be and nothing more. This fact in itself was unimportant, for it was clear as crystal that she was no party to her father's treacherous intrigues, if he was engaged in such. But if memet was his sphere for them, it was disconcerting to find herself familiar with that sphere, likely talking of a descent in a diving bell, hinting too that the mystery as to results was only for local consumption. Nevertheless the charm of memet as the place we had traced grimd to, and as the only tangible clue we had obtained, was still very great. The really cogent objection was the insuperable difficulty, known and watched as we were, of learning its significance. If there was anything important to see there, we should never be allowed to see it, while by trying and failing we risked everything. It was on this point that the last of all misunderstandings between me and Davis was dissipated. At Benzazil he had been influenced more than he owned by my arguments about memet, but at that time, as I hinted, he was biased by a radical prejudice. The channel theory had become a sort of religion with him, promising double salvation, not only avoidance of the dolmans, but success in the quest by methods in which he was past master. To have to desert it and resort to spying on naval defenses was an idea he dreaded and distrusted. It was not the morality of the course that bothered him. He was far too clear-headed to blink at the essential fact that at heart we were spies on the foreign power in time of peace, or to solve his conscience by species' distinctions as to our mode of operation. The foreign power to him was dolman, a traitor. There was his final justification, fearlessly adopted and held to the last. It was rather that, knowing his own limitations, his whole nature shrank from the sort of action entailed by the memet theory, and there was strong common sense in his antipathy, so much for independent research. On the other hand, the road was now clear for the other method. Davis no longer feared to face the Umbrolio at Nordenai, and that day fortune had given us a new and potent weapon against dolman. Precisely how potent we could not tell, for we had only a glimpse of his past, and his exact relations with the government were unknown to us. But we knew who he was. Using this knowledge with address, could we not ring the rest from him, feel our way, of course, be guided by his own conduct, but in the end strike hard and stake everything on the stroke? Such at any rate was our scheme to-night. Later tossing in my bunk, I besought me of the little drab book, little candle, and fetched it. A preface explained that it had been written during a spell of two months' leave from naval duty, and expressed hope that it might be of service to Corinthian sailors. The style was unadorned, but scholarly and pissy. There was no trace of the writer's individuality, save a certain subdued relish in describing banks and shoals, which reminded me of Davies himself. For the rest I found the book dull, and in fact it sent me to sleep. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of The Riddle of the Sands This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Gesine The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers Chapter 21 Blindfold to Mehmet Here she comes, said Davies. It was nine o'clock on the next day, twenty-second of October, and we were on deck waiting for the arrival of the steamer from Norddeich. There was no change in the weather, still the same stringent cold, with a hybrometer, and only fickle flaws of air. But the morning was gloriously clear, except for a wreath or two of mist curling like smoke from the sea, and an attenuated belt of opaque fog on the northern horizon. The harbour lay open before us, and very commodious and civilised it looked, enclosed between two long piers which ran quite half a mile out from the land to the roadstead, Rivgut by name, where we lay. A stranger might have taken it for a deep and spacious haven, but this, of course, was an illusion due to the high water. Davies knew that three-quarters of it was mud, the remainder being a dredged-out channel along the western pier. A couple of tugs, a dredger, and a ferry-packet with steam-up were moored on that side, a small stack of galliots on the other. Beyond these was another vessel, a galliot in build but radiant as a queen among sluts, her varnished size and spars flashing orange in the sun. These at her snow-white sail covers and the twinkle of brass and gun-metal proclaimed her to be a yacht. I had already studied her for the glasses and read on her stern Medusa. A couple of sailors were swabbing her decks, you could hear the slush of the water and the scratching of the deck-brims. They can see us anyway, Davies had said. For that matter all the world could see us, certainly the incoming steamer must, for we lay as near to the pier as safety permitted, a breast of the berth she would occupy, as we knew by a gangway and a knot of sailors. A packet-boat, not bigger than a big tug, was approaching from the south. Remember we're not supposed to know he's coming, I said. Let's go below. Besides the skylight, our coach-house, cabin-top, had little oblong side windows. We wiped clean those on the port side and watched events from them kneeling on the sofa. The steamer backed her paddles, flinging out a wash that set us rolling to our scuppers. There seemed to be very few passengers aboard but all of them were gazing at the dulcabella while the packet was warped alongside. On the forward deck there were some marked women with baskets, a postman, and a weedy youth who might be in her tail-waiter. On the after-deck, standing close together, were two men in ulcers and soft-felt hats. There he is, said Davies in a tense whisper, the tall one. But the tall one turned abruptly as Davies spoke and strode away behind the deck-house, leaving me just a lightening impression of a grey beard and a steep, tanned forehead, behind a cloud of cigar smoke. It was perverse of me, but to tell the truth, I hardly missed him, so occupied was I by the short one, who remained leaning on the rail, thoughtfully contemplating the dulcabella through a gold-rimmed pence-nez, a sallow, wizend old fellow, beetle-browed, with a bush of grizzled moustache, and a jet-black tuft of beard on his chin. The most remarkable feature was the nose, which was broad and flat, merging almost imperceptibly in the wrinkled cheeks. Lightly beaked, at the nether extremity, it drooped towards an enormous cigar which was pointing at us, like a gun just discharged. He looked wise as Satan, and he would say he was smiling inwardly. Who's that? I whispered to Davies. There was no need to talk and whisper, but we did so instinctively. Can't think, said Davies. Hello, she's backing off, and they've not landed. Some parcels and mail-bags had been thrown up, and the wheelie-waiter and two market women had gone up to the gangway, which was now being hauled up, and was standing on the key. I think one or two other persons had first come aboard unnoticed by us, but at the last moment a man we had not seen before jumped down to the forward deck. Grim, we both ejaculated at once. The steamer whistled sharply, circled backwards into the roadstead, and then steamed away. The pier soon hit her, but her smoke showed she was steering towards the North Sea. What does this mean? I asked. There must be some other key to stop at nearer the town, said Davies. Let's go ashore and get your letters. We had made a long and painful toilette that morning, and felt quite shy of one another as we sculled towards the pier in much-greased blue suits, conventional collars, and brown boots. It was the first time for two years that I had seen Davies in anything approaching a respectable garb, but a fashionable watering-place, even in the dead season, exacts respect. And besides, we had friends to visit. We tied up the dinghy to an iron ladder, and on the pier found our inquisitor of the night before, smoking in the doorway of a shed marked Harbour Master. After some civilities, we inquired about the steamer. The answer was that it was Saturday, and she had, therefore, gone on to used. Did we want a good hotel? The Fiery Jahreszeitung was still open, etc. Used by Jove, said Davies, as we walked on. Why are those three going to used? I should have thought it was pretty clear. They are on their way to Mehmet. Davies agreed, and we both looked longingly westward at a straw-colored streak on the sea. Is it some meeting, do you think? said Davies. Looks like it. We shall probably find the Kormoran here, wind-bound. And find her, we did, soon after, the outermost of the stack of Galiates, on the farther side of the Harbour. Two men, whose faces we took a good look at, were sitting on her hatch, mending a sail. Flooded with sun, yet still as the grave, the town was like a dead butterfly for whom the healing rays had come too late. We crossed some deserted public gardens commanded by a gorgeous casino, its porticoes heaped with chairs and tables. So passed kiosks and cafes, great white hotels with boarded windows, bazaars and booths, and all the stale lease of vulgar frivolity to the post office, which at least was alive. I received a packet of letters and purchased a local timetable, from which we learned that the steamer sailed daily to Borkum via Nordenai, touching three times a week adused, weather permitting. On the return journey to day it was due at Nordenai at 7.30 p.m. Then I inquired the way to the Fiyaros Titan. For whatever your principles, Davis. I said, we are going to have the best breakfast money can buy. We've got the whole day before us. The Four Seasons Hotel was on the Esplanade, facing the northern beach. Living up to its name, it announced on an illuminated signboard, inclusive terms for winter visitors, special attention to invalids, etc. Here, in a great glass restaurant, with the unruffled blue of ocean spread out before us, we ate the king of breakfasts, dismissed the waiter, and over long and fragrant havanas, examined my mailed leisure. What a waste of good diplomacy, was my first thought, for nothing had been tampered with, so far as we could judge from the minutest scrutiny, directed, of course, in particular to the franked official letters. Four, to my surprise, there were two, from Whitehall. The first and order of date, 6th of October, ran, Dear Carothers, taken other week by all means, yours, etc. The second, marked Urgent, had been sent to my home address and forwarded. It was dated 15th of October, and cancelled the previous letter, requesting me to return to London without delay. I am sorry to abridge your holiday, but we are very busy and at present, shorthanded, yours, etc. There was a dry past script to the effect that another time, I was to be good enough to leave more regular and definite information as to my whereabouts when absent. I am afraid I never got this, I said, handing it to Davis. You won't go, will you? said he, looking, nevertheless, with concealed awe at the great man's handwriting under the haughty official crest. I discovered an endorsement on the corner of the envelope. Don't worry, it's only the chief's fuss, M. I promptly tore up the envelope. There are domestic mysteries which it would be indecent and disloyal to reveal, even to one's best friend. The rest of my letters need no remark, as mild over some and blushed over others, all were voices from a life which was infinitely far away. Davis, meanwhile, was in the foreign intelligence of a newspaper, spelling it out land by line and referring impatiently to me for the meaning of words. Hello, he said suddenly, same old game, hear that siren? A curtain of fog had grown on the northern horizon and was drawing shorewards, slowly but surely. It doesn't matter, does it? I said. Well, we must get back to the yacht. We can't leave her alone in the fog. There was some marketing to be done on the way back, and in the course of looking for the shops we wanted, we came on the Schwannale and noted its position. Before we reached the harbour, the fog was on us, charging up the street in dense masses. Happily a tram-line led right up on the pier-head. Or we should have lost our way and wasted time, which in the event was of priceless value. Presently we stumbled up against the harbour-office, which was our landmark for the steps where we had tied up the dinghy. The same official appeared and good-naturedly held the painter while we handed in our parcels. He wanted to know why we had left the flesh-pots of the Fiery Jahreszeitung. To look after our yacht, of course. There was no need, he objected. There would be no traffic moving while the fog lasted, and the fog, having come on at that hour, had come to stay. If it did clear, he would keep an eye on the yacht for us. We thanked him, but thought we would go aboard. You'll have a job to find her now, he said. The distance was eighty yards at the most. But we had to use a scientific method, the same one, in fact, that Davis had used last night in the approach to the eastern pier. Roast straight out at right angles to the pier, he said now. I did so. Davis sounding with his skull between the strokes. He found the bottom of twenty yards, that being the widths of the dredged-out channel at this point. Then we turned to the right, and moved gently forward, keeping touch with the edge of the mud-bank, for all the world, like blind men, tapping along a curb-stone, and taking short excursions from it till the dulcabella-hoven view. That's partly luck, Davis commented. We ought to have had the compass as well. We exchanged chouts with the man on the pier to show we had arrived. It's very good practice, that sort of thing, said Davis, when we had disembarked. You've got a sixth sense, I observed. How far could you go like that? Don't know. Let's have another try. I can't sit still all day. Let's explore this channel. Why not go to Mehmet, I said in fun. To Mehmet, said Davis, slowly. Why, Joe, that's an idea. Good heavens, man, I was joking. Why, it's ten mortal miles. More, said Davis, absently. It's not so much the distance. What's the time? Ten-fifteen, quarter-heb. What am I talking about? We made our plans last night. But seeing him, to my amazement, serious, I was stung by this blender of the idea I had awakened. Confidence in his skill was second nature to me. I swept straight onto the logic of the thing, the greatness, the completeness of the opportunity. If by a miracle it could be seized and used. Something was going on at Mehmet, today. Our men had gone there. Here were we, ten miles away, in a smothering, blinding fog. It was known we were here. Dolman and Grimm knew it. The crew of the Medusa knew it. The crew of the Cormoran knew it. The man on the pier, whether he cared or not, knew it. But none of them knew Davis as I knew him. Would anyone dream for an instant? Stop a second, said Davis. Give me two minutes. He whipped out the jam and chart. Where exactly should we go? Exactly. The world tickled me hugely. To the depot, of course. It's our only chance. Listen, then. There are two routes, the outside one by the open sea, right round used, and doubling south. The simplest but the longest, the depots at the south point of Mehmet, and Mehmet's nearly two miles long. How far would that way be? Sixteen miles good, and we should have to row in breaking swell mist of the way, close to land. Out of the question. It's too public, too, if it clears. The steamer went that way and will come back that way. We must go inside over the sands. Am I dreaming, though? Can you possibly find the way? I shouldn't wonder. But I don't believe you see the hitch. It's the time and the falling tide. High water was about eight-fifteen. It's now ten-fifteen, and all those sands are drying off. We must cross the sea-gut and strike that boom-channel, the Mehmet Baal-ya. Strike it, freeze on it, can't cut off an inch, and pass that watershed you see there before it's too late. It's an infernly bad one, I can see. Not even a dinghy will cross it for an hour each side of low water. Well, how far is the watershed? Good Lord, what are we talking for? Change, man, change. Talk while we're changing. He began flinging off his straw-clothes, and I did the same. It's at least five miles to the end of it, six allowing for bends, hour-and-a-half hard pulling, two allowing for checks. Are you fit? You'll have to pull the most. Then there are six or seven more miles, easier ones, and then what are we to do when we get there? Leave that to me, I said. You get me there. Supposing it clears. After we get there? Bad, but we must risk that. If it clears on the way there, it doesn't matter by this route. We shall be miles from land. What about getting back? We shall have a rising tide, anyway. If the fog lasts, can you manage in a fog and dark? The dark makes it no more difficult, if we've a light to see the compass and chart by. You trim the binnacle lamp, know the riding-light. Now give me the scissors, and don't speak a word for ten minutes. Meanwhile, think it out, and load the dinghy. By jove, though, don't make a sound. Some grub and whisky, the boat compass, lead, riding-light, matches, small boat-hook, grapple and line. Foghorn? Yes, and the whistle, too. A gun? What for? We're after darks. All right, and muffle the rollox with cotton waste. I left Davis absorbed in the charts, and softly went about my own functions. In ten minutes he was on the ladder, beckoning. I've done, he whispered. Now shall we go? I've thought it out. Yes, I answered. This was only roughly true, for I could not have stated in words all the pros and cons that I had balanced. It was an impulse that drove me forward, but an impulse founded on reason, with just a tinge, perhaps, of superstition, for the quest had begun in a fog, and might fitly end in one. It was twenty-five minutes to eleven when we noiselessly pushed off. Let her drift, whispered Davis. The ebb will carry her past the pier. We slid by the daltabella, and she disappeared. Then we sat without speech or movement for about five minutes, while the gurgle of tide, through piles, approached and passed. The dinghy appeared to be motionless, just as a balloon in the clouds may appear to its occupants to be motionless, though urged by current of air. In reality we were driving out of the rift-gut into the sea-gut. The dinghy swayed to a light swell. Now pull, said Davis, under his breath, keep it long and steady, above all steady, both arms with equal force. I was on the bath-watt. He vis-a-vis to me on the stand-seat. His left hand behind him was the tiller, his right forefinger on a small square of paper, which lay on his knees. This was a section cut out from the big German chart. On the midship-watt between us lay the compass and the watch. Between these three objects, compass, watch, and chart, his eyes darted constantly, never looking up or out, save occasionally for a sharp glance over the side at the flying bubbles, to see if I was sustaining a regular speed. My duty was to be his automaton, the human equivalent of a marine engine whose revolutions can be counted and used as data by the navigator. My arms must be regular as twin pistons. The energy that drove them was controllable as steam. It was a hard ideal to reach, for the complex mortal tends to rely on all the senses God has given him, so unfitting himself for mechanical exactitude when a sense, I cite in my case, fails him. At first it was constantly left or right from Davis, accompanied by a bubbling from the rudder. This won't do too much helm, said Davis, without looking up. Keep your stroke, but listen to me. Can you see the compass card? When I come forward. Take your time and don't go flurried, but each time you come forward, have a good look at it. The course is south-west, half-west. You take the opposite, north-east, half-east, and keep her stern on that. It'll be rough, but it'll save some helm and give me a hand free if I want it. I did, as he said, not without effort, and our progress gradually became smoother, till we had no need to speak at all. The only sand now was one like the gentle simmer of a saucepan away to port. The lisp of surf I knew it to be, and the muffled grunt of the rollox. I broke the silence once to say, It's very shallow. I had touched sand with my right skull. Don't talk, said Davis. About half an hour passed, and then he added sounding to his other occupations. Plump went the led at regular intervals, and he steered with his hip while pulling in the line. Very little of it went out at first, then less still. Again I struck bottom, and, glancing aside, saw weeds. Suddenly he got a deep cast, and the dingy freed from the slight drag which shallow water always inflicts on the small boat, leapt buoyantly forward. At the same time I knew by boils on the smooth surface that we were in a strong tideway. The booze had heath, muttered Davis. Row hard now, and steady as a clock. For a hundred yards or more I bent to my skulls and made her fly. Davis was getting six phathom casts, till just as suddenly as it had deepened, the water shoaled. Ten feet, six, three, one, the dingy grounded. Good! said Davis. Back her off. Pull your right only. The dingy spun round with her bow to north-north-west. Both arms together. Don't you worry about the compass now. Just pull and listen for orders. There's a tricky bit coming. He put aside the chart, kicked the led under the seat, and, kneeling on the dripping coils of line, sanded continuously with the butt end of the boat hook, a stumpy little implement, notched at intervals of a foot, and often before used for the same purpose. All at once I was aware that a check had come, for the dingy 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 Davis 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 in dodging 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 supplings, 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 eleven ten. I had some biscuits and took a nip of whisky, while Davis prepared for the next stage. We had reached the eastern outlet of Mehmed Balya, the channel which runs east and west behind East Ireland, direct to the south point of Mehmed. 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 Davis'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 Mehmed Balya, in view of the northward set of the Abteid, and then to drop back north and feel his way to the outlet. The check was caused by a deep indentation in the Itzendorf Flut, a cul-de-sac with a wide mouth, which Davis was very near mistaking for the Balya itself. We had no time to skirt dense so deep as that, hence the dash across its mouth was a 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, the 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 shortcuts, 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 Davis, 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 Davis would have succumbed to the temptation of slavishly relying on these marks, creeping from one to the other, and wasting precious time. But Davis 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 happen to sight one, well and good, we should know which side of the tunnel we were on, but even this contingent advantage he deliberately sacrificed after a short distance, for he crossed over to the south, or un-boomed side, and steered and sanded along it, using the Itzendorf Flut 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, eye of physical exertion, he of mental. I could not get into a steady swing, for little checks were constant. My right skull was forever skidding on mud or weeds, and the backward suck of shell water clogged our progress. Once we were both of us, out in the slime tugging at the dingy'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 Davis, 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 its madness. Then the boat hook he wielded with a circular sweep began to take grotesque shapes in my heated fancy. Now it was the antennae of a groping insect, now the crank of a cripple's self-propelled 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 Davis once, having become aware that it was now my left skull which splashed against obstructions. Robbish, said Davis. 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 handrail, 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 died. 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 nonetheless a mighty divinity. Davis left his post and rode 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 Davis. We stopped the dinghy dead, and he stabbed over the side with a 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, Davis says, and the course of the tunnel from that point westward. He 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's sand, leads with one interruption direct to Mehmet, and is boomed throughout. He will then understand why Davis 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, observer 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 creak 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 led me to 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, Davis 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 Mehmet. What time is it? Nearly three. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of The Riddle of the Sands This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Gesine The Riddle of the Sands by Asken Childers Chapter 22 The Quartet 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. Davis demurged to this out of loyalty, but common sense, coinciding with a stronger version 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, oil skin coat, with a sour-wester pulled well over my eyes, I should pass in a fog for a frisian. Davis must mine 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 tart, 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 seamen's idea of efficiency. Wait a bit. We must settle a place to meet 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 Davis gloomily. There are no meeting places in a place like this. Here's the best I can see on the tart. A big triangular beacon marked on the very point of Mehmet. You'll pass it. All right. I'm off. Good luck, said Davis faintly. I stepped out, climbed the murray glassy of five or six feet, reached hard wet sand, and strode away with the sluggish ripple of the bullion on my left hand. A curtain dropped between me and Davis, and I was alone. Alone, but how 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 doubled 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 balut was here a deep roadstead, where a vessel entering the eastern Ems might 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 watermark. A few cautious steps to the right, and I touched tufts of marron grass. It was memmet. 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, staid 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 oral 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 lay the compass on my ground. North-west, roughly, I made the course. South-east, south-east for coming back, I repeated inwardly, like a child learning a lesson. The end 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-o'ed meershawm 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, they drifted to my nostrils, the acrid odour of coarse tobacco, then a door banged. I put the compass in my pocket, thinking south-east, south-east. Placed the pipe between my teeth, the rank saver of it. Rant my south-west a hard down, and slouched on in the direction of the door that had banged. A voice in front called, Carl Schicker. A nearer voice, that of the man whose footsteps I had heard approaching, took it up and called, Carl Schicker. I too took it up and, turning my back, called, Carl 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 seal-skin cap, instead of a sour-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, at 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 posterior connoiter 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. A litter match, too, sucked heavily, as I had seen navies 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 little some 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 older shot 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 expected it noisily, I followed the tin wall to my right, and turning a corner strove leisurely on, passing signs of domesticity, a wash tub, 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 eve. 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 penned 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. 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 sorted 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 varnished like an office. In the far right hand corner, a counting-house desk. Grimm's hitting at it on a high stall, side-faced to me, counting money. Opposite him, in an awkward attitude, a burly fellow in Siemens dress, holding a diver's helmet. In the middle of the room a deal table, and on it something big and black. Loaning on chairs near it, their backs to me and their faces turned towards the desk and the diver, two men, von Brunning and an older man with a bald yellow head, Dolman's companion on the steamer beyond a doubt. On another chair, with its back actually tilted against the window, Dolman. 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 Dolman'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 Dolman'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 Bonafide salvaged company. It was payday, 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 and a full sail pinned on the wall a chart and the plan of a ship. Relics of the wrecked frigate abounded. On the shelf above the stove was a small pyramid of encrusted cannon walls, 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 caronade, 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 Bruningen 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 Davis had used at Benzazil, Folland Dolman'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 Mehmet by Dolman, his friend and Grimm, and now this glimpse of businesslike routine. In a few moments I sank from depth to depth of skepticism. Where were my minds, torpedoes, and submarine boats, and where my imperial conspirators? Was gold, after all, at the bottom of this sordid mystery? Dolman, after all, a commonplace criminal? The ladder of proof I had mounted, tottered, and shook beneath me. Don't be a fool, said the faint voice of reason. These are your four men. Wait! Two more employees 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 bulk of wreckwood, 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 not-of-men retweeting beach-woods, 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 southeast 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 creton curtain. It was in one piece, with no chink for my benefit, but did not hang straight bulging towards me under the pressure of something, human shoulders by the shape. Dolman, 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. It was on the left of the table, and Dolmans 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 Böhmer. 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. Dolmans' 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 creton. 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 ring's jar, and, sick as ever. Your report, Herr Dolman, said Böhmer curtly. Dolman left the window and moved his chair up to the table. The other two drew in theirs and settled themselves. Chatham, said Dolman, as if announcing a heading. It was an easy word to catch, wrapped 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 Dolman explained something. But now my exasperation became acute, for not a syllable more reached me. Squatting back on my heels I cast about for expedience. 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 the sudden jar if I forced it. I pulled out Davis' knife and worked the point of the blade between sash and frame to give it play. No result, but the knife was an oracle 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. Grim in his living-room, I inferred. The precious minutes ebbed away, five, ten, fifteen. Has he gone for good? I dared not return otherwise. Eighteen. He was coming out. This time I stow 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 skepticism. If this is an important conclave, why don't they set guards? Answer, the only possible one, because they stand alone. Their employees, like every one 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 rest their secret from these four men. The Marlin Spike. Where the lower half of the window met the sill, it sank into a shallow grove, 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 the 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. Dormant's report was evidently over, and I rarely heard his voice, grims occasionally, fun-winnings and boomers 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 peace plotted without any regard to dramatic fitness or to my interests. Immersed in a subject with which they were all familiar, they were elusive, 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 occurred often, and seemed as far as I could make out, to present 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 had 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 Boomer, 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 meters 2.5 kilometers E 32 1.2 D 3 weeks 30 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 Schleppborte, Tugs, Wassertiefer, Depths of Water, Eisenbahn, Railway, Pilots. The name, also sibilant and thus easier to hear, was Asens. 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 rode against time. We were going to be asked to supper, at 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 used? 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. 420, 425, now it was past 430, when Davis 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 435, 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 Bruning. I said the 25th. Why? The tide serves well, the night train, of course. Tell Grimm to be ready. And an audible question from Bruning. No, any weather. A laugh from von Bruning 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 Bruning 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, southeast, was growing nougatory. I passed a padlocked door, two corners, and faced the void of fog. Out came the compass, and I steadied myself for the sum. Southeast before, I'm farther to the eastward now, east will about do it, 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, but trying to find it again, and as the lesser of the 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. End of Chapter 22