 16. Commander von Brüning To resume my story in narrative form. I was awakened at ten o'clock on the nineteenth, after a long and delicious sleep by Davies' voice outside, talking his unmistakable German. Looking out in my pajamas, I saw him on the key above, in conversation with a man in a long Macintosh coat, and a gold-laced navy cap. He had a close-trimmed auburn beard, a keen, handsome face, and an animated manor. It was raining in a raw air. They saw me, and Davies said, Hello, Carothers. Here's Commander von Brüning from the Blitz. That's Minor Freund, Carothers. Davies was deplorably weak in terminations. The Commander smiled broadly at me, and I inclined an uncombed head, while for a moment the quest was a dream, and I myself felt unutterably squalid and foolish. I ducked down, heard them parting, and Davies came aboard. We'd meet him at the inn for a talk at twelve, he said. His news was that the Blitz's steam-cutter had come in on the morning tide, and he had met von Brüning when marketing at the inn. Secondly the Cormoran had also come in, and was moored close by. It was as clear as possible, therefore, that the latter had watched us, and was in touch with the Blitz, and that both had seized the opportunity of our being cooped up in Benzazil to take further stock of us. What had passed hitherto? Nothing much. von Brüning had greeted Davies with cordial surprise, and said he had wondered yesterday if it was the dulcabella that he had seen anchored behind Langeurg. Davies had explained that we had left the Baltic and Waranao way home, taking the shelter of the islands. Supposing he comes on board and asks to see our log, I said. Pull it out, said Davies. It's rot this hiding, after all. I say. I'd rather funk this interview. What are we to say? It's not in my line. Davies resolved abruptly on an important change of plan, replaced the log and charts in the rack as the first logical step. They contained nothing but bearings, courses, and the bare data of navigation. To Davies they were hard-won secrets of vital import, to be lied for, however hard and distasteful lying was. I was cooler as to their value, but in any case the same thing was now in both our minds. There would be great difficulties in the coming interview if we tried to be too clever and conceal the fact that we had been exploring. We did not know how much von Brunning knew. When had our surveillance by the Cormoran begun? Apparently at Vangeurg, but possibly in the estuaries, where we had not tired a shot at Duc? Perhaps he knew even more, Dolman's treachery, Davies' escape, and our subsequent movements we could not tell. On the other hand exploration was known to be a fad of Davies's, and in September he had made no secret of it. It was safer to be consistent now. After breakfast we determined to find out something about the Cormoran which lay on the mud at the other side of the harbour, and accordingly addressed ourselves to two mighty sailors whose jerseys bore the legend Post, and who towered conspicuous among a row of stolid frisions on the quay, all gazing gravely down at us as at a curious bit of marine bric-a-brac. The twins, for such they proved to be, were most benignant giants, and asked us aboard the post-poet Gallead for a chat. It was easy to bring the talk naturally round to the point we wished, and we soon gained some most interesting information delivered in the broadest Frisian, but intelligibly enough. They called the Cormoran a memet boat, or rec-works boat. It seemed that off the western end of Eust, the island lying west of Northern Eye, there lay the bones of a French war-vessel, wrecked ages ago. She carried bullion, which has never been recovered, in spite of many efforts. A salvage company was trying for it now, and had works on memet. An adjacent sand-bank. What is her grim, the overseer himself, they said, pointing to the bridge above the sluice-gates? I call him grim because it describes him exactly. A man in pilot-jacket and peaked cap was leaning over the parapet. What's he doing here, I asked. They answered that he was often up and down the coast, work on the wreck being impossible in rough weather. I suppose he was bringing cargo in his galliot from Wilhelmshafen, or the company's plant and stores coming from that port. He was a local man from Aorich, an ex-tug-skipper. We discussed this information while walking out over the sands to see the channel at low water. Did you hear anything about this in September? I asked. Not a word. I didn't go to Eust. I would have probably if I hadn't met Dolman. What in the world did he mean? How did it affect our plans? Look at his boots if we pass him, was all Davies had to suggest. The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle in it, running north by east, roughly, and edged by a dike of whitties for the first quarter of a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the northeast and besought that exit was impossible in such a wind. So back to the village, a paltry bleak little place. We passed friend Grimm on the bridge, a dark, clean-shaved, satinine man, wearing shoes. Approaching the inn. We haven't settled quite enough, have we, said Davies. What about our future plans? Heaven knows we haven't, I said, but I don't see how we can. We must see how things go. It's past twelve, and it won't do to be late. Well, I'll leave it to you. All right, I'll do my best. All you've got to do is be yourself and tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dolman played you. The next scene. Von Bruning, Davies and I, sitting over coffee and kummel at a table in a dingy, in parlour, overlooking the harbour and the sea. Davies with a full box of matches on the table before him. The commander gave us a hearty welcome, and I am bound to say I liked him at once, as Davies had done, but I feared him, too, before he had honest eyes, but abominably clever ones. I had impressed on Davies to talk, and question us freely and naturally, as though nothing uncommon had happened since he last saw Von Bruning on the deck of the Medusa. He must ask about Dolman, the mutual friend at the outset, and if questioned about that voyage in his company to the Elbe, must lie like a trooper as to the danger he had been in. This was the one clear and essential necessity, where much was difficult. Davies did his duty with precipitation, and blushed when he put his question in a way that horrified me, till I remembered that his embarrassment was due and would be ascribed to another course. �Had Dolman is away still, I think,� said Von Bruning. Sir Davies had been right at Brunsbüttel. �Were you thinking of looking him up again?� he added. �Yes,� said Davies, shortly. �Well, I am sure he is away, but his yacht is back, I believe, and frolla and Dolman, I suppose. �Hm!� said Davies. �She is a very fine boat, that� Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who was miserable. I saw a chance and took it mercilessly. �We can call on frolla and Dolman, at least,� Davies, I said, with a meaning smiled at Von Bruning. �Hm!� said Davies. �Will he be back soon, do you think?� The commander had begun to light a cigar, and took his time in answering. �Probably� he said, after some puffing, �he�s never away very long. But you�ve seen them later than I have. Didn�t you sail the Elbe together the day after I saw you last? �Oh!� part of the way,� said Davies, with great negligence. �I haven�t seen him since. He got there first. I�d sailed me.� Gave him the slip, in fact. �Of course he beat me. I was close-reefed, besides� �Oh!� I remember there was a heavy blow, a devil of a heavy blow. I thought of you that day. How did you manage? �Oh! It was a fair wind. It wasn�t far, you see. �Of course it got, in that.� He nodded towards the window, whence the dulcabella�s taper-mast could be seen pointing demurely at Heavenwoods. �She�s a splendid sea-boat,� said Davies, indignantly. �A thousand pardons,� said von Brunning, laughing. �Don�t shake my faith in her,� I put in. �I�ve got to get to England in her.� Heaven forbid! I was only thinking there must have been some sea round the charhorn that day, a time of fair no doubt,� said Davies. �Charhorn?� said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in the latter sentence. �Oh! We didn�t go that way. We cut for the sands, by the tilty.� �The tilter?� in a north-west gale. The commander started, ceased to smile, and only stared. It was genuine surprise I could swear it. He had heard nothing of this before. �Had Ollman knew the way,� said Davies doggedly. He kindly offered to pilot me through, and I wouldn�t have gone otherwise. There was an awkward little pause. He led you well, it seems,� said Von Bruning. �Yes, there�s a nasty surf there, though, isn�t there? But it saves six miles, and the charhorn. Not that I saved distance. I was full enough to run aground.� �Ah!� said the other, with interest. It didn�t matter, because I was well inside then. Those sands are difficult at high water. We�ve come back that way, you know? �And we run aground every day,� I remarked with resignation. �Is that where the Medusa gave you this lip?� asked Von Bruning, still studying Davies with a strange look, which I strove anxiously to analyze. �She wouldn�t have noticed,� said Davies. �It was very thick and squally, and she had got some way ahead. There was no need for her to stop, anyway. I got off all right. The tide was rising still. But of course I anchored there for the night.� �Where?� �Inside there, under the hornhurn,� said Davies, simply. �Under the what?� said the hornhurn.� �Go on.� �Didn�t they wait for you at Cooke�s Harfen?� �I don�t know. I didn�t go that way.� The commander looked more and more puzzled. �Not by the ship canal, I mean.� I changed my mind about it, because the next day the wind was easterly. It would have been a dead beat across the sands to Cuxhaven, while it was a fair wind straight out to the Eider River. So I sailed there, and reached the Baltic that way. It was all the same.� There was another pause. �Well done, Davies,� I thought. He had told his story well, using no subtlety. I knew it was exactly how he would have told it to anyone else, if he had not had irrefutable proof of foul play.� The commander laughed, suddenly and heartily. �Another liqueur?� he said. Then to me, upon my word, your friend muses me. It�s impossible to make him spin a yarn. I expect he has had a bad time of it. �That�s nothing to him.� I said. He prefers it. He anchored me the other day, behind the hornhurn, in a gale of wind. And it was safer than a harbour, and more sanitary. I wonder he brought you here last night. It was a fair wind for England, and not very far. There was no pilot to follow, you see. With a charming daughter, no. Davies frowned and glared at me. I was merciful and changed the subject. �Besides,� I said, �we�ve left our anchor and chain out there.� And I made confession of my sin. �Well, as it�s poid, I should advise you to pick it up as soon as you can,� said von Brunning carelessly, or some one else will. �Yes,� spied Jove. �Cour others,� said Davies eagerly, �we must go out on this next tide.� �Oh, there�s no hurry,� I said, partly from policy, partly because the ease of the shore was on me. To sit on a chair upright is something of a luxury, however good the cause in which you have crouched like a monkey over a table at the level of your knees with a reeking oil stove at your ear. �They�re honest enough about here, aren�t they?� I added. While the words were on my lips I remembered the midnight visitor at Wangerog and guessed that von Brunning was leading up to a test. Grimm, if he was the visitor, would have told him of his narrow escape from detection, and reticence on our part would show we suspected something. I could have kicked myself, but it was not too late. I took the bull by the horns and, before the commander could answer, added, �By Jove! Davies, I forgot about that fellow at Wangerog. The anchor might be stolen, as he says.� Davies looked blank, but von Brunning had turned to me. �I never dreamed there would be thieves among these islands,� I said, �but the other night I nearly caught a fellow in the act. He thought the yacht was empty. I described the affair in detail and with what humour I could. Our host was amused and apologetic for the islanders. �They�re excellent folk,� he said, �but they�re born with predatory instincts. Their fathers made their living out of wrecks on this coast, and the children inherited a weakness for plunder. When Wangerog Lighthouse was built they petitioned the government for compensation, in perfect good faith. The coast is well lighted now, and windfalls are rare, but the sight of a stranded yacht with the owners ashore would inflame the old passion and depend on it. Someone has seen that anchor-boy.� The word �wrecks� had set me tingling. Was it another test? Impossible to say, but audacity was safer than reserve, and might save trouble in the future. �Isn�t there the wreck of a treasure ship somewhere farther west?� I asked. �You heard of it at Wangerog.� My first inaccuracy. �They said a company was exploiting it.� �Quite right,� said the commander, �without a sign of embarrassment.� I don�t wonder you heard of it. It�s one of the few things folk have to talk about in these parts. It lies on Eusteriff, a shoal of Eust. She was a French frigate, the Corinne, bound from Hamburg to Avre, in 1811, when Napoleon held Hamburg as tight as Paris. She carried a million-and-a-half in gold bars, and was insured in Hamburg, found it in four fathoms, broke up, and there lies the treasure. Never been raised? No. The underwriters failed and went bankrupt, and the wreck came into the hands of your English Lloyds. It remained their property till 1975, but they never got at the bullion. In fact, for fifty years it was never scratched at, and its very position grew doubtful, for the sun swallowed every stick. The rights passed through various hands, and in 1986 were held by an enterprising Swedish company, which brought modern appliances, dived, dredged, and dug, fished up a lot of timber and bric-a-brac, and then broke. Since then, two Hamburg firms have tackled a job and lost their capital. Hours of lives have been spent over it, all told, and probably a million of money. Still, there are the bars, somewhere. And what's being done now? Well, recently a small local company was formed. It has a depot in Mehmet, and is working with a good deal of perseverance. An engineer from Bremen was the principal mover, and a few men from Nordenai and Emden subscribed the capital. By the way, our friend Dolman is largely interested in it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Davies' tell-tale face, growing troubled with inward questionings. We mustn't get back to him, I said, laughing. It's not fair to my friend, but all this is very interesting. Will they ever get those bars? Ah, that's the point, said von Bruning, with a mysterious twinkle. It's an undertaking of immense difficulty, for the wreck has wholly disintegrated, and the gold, being the heaviest part of it, has, of course, sunk the deepest. Dredging is useless after a certain point, and the divers have had to make excavations in the sand, and shore them up as best they can. Every gale nullifies half their labour, and weather like this of the last fortnight plays the mischief with the work. This morning I met the overseer, who happens to be ashore here. He was as black as thunder over prospects. Well, it's a romantic speculation, I said. They deserve a return for their money. I hope they'll get it, said the Commander. The fact is, I hold a few shares myself. Oh! I hope I haven't been asking indiscreet questions. Oh, dear no! All the world knows what I've told you. But you'll understand that one has to be reticent as to results in such a case. It's a big stake, and the title is none too sound. There has been litigation over it. Not that I worry much about my investment, for I shan't lose much by it at the worst. But it gives one an interest in this abominable coast. I go and see how they're getting on sometimes, when I'm down that way. It is an abominable coast. I agreed heartily, though you won't get Davies to agree. It's a magnificent place for sailing, said Davies, looking wistfully out over the storm-speckled grey of the North Sea. He underwent some more chaff, and the talk passed to our cruising adventures in the Baltic and the Estuaries. Von Brunning cross-examined us with the most charming urbanity and skill. Nothing he asked could cause us the slightest offence, and the responsive frankness was our only possible course. So, date after date, and incident after incident, were elicited in the most natural way. As we talked I was astonished to find how little there was that was worth concealing, and heartily thankful that we had decided on Kander. My fluency gave me the lead, and Davies followed me, but his own personality was really our tower of strength. I realised that as I watched the play of his eager features, and heard him struggle for expression on his favourite hobby, all his petphrases translated crudely into the most excruciating German. He was convincing, because he was himself. Are there many like you in England? asked Von Brunning once. Like me? Of course. Lots! said Davies. I wish there were more in Germany. My play at yachting over here, on shore half the time, drinking and loafing, paid crews, clean hands, white trousers, laid up in the middle of September. We haven't seen many yachts about, said Davies politely. For my part I made no pretense of being a Davies. Faithful to my lower nature, I vowed the Germans were right, and not without a secret zest, drew a lurid picture of the horrors of crudeless cruising, and the drudgery that my remorseless skipper inflicted on me. It was delightful to see Davies wincing when I described my first night at Flensburg, for I had my revenge at last, and did not spare him. He bore up gallantly under my jesting, but I knew very well by his manner that he had not forgiven me my banter about the charming daughter. You speak German well, said Von Brunning. I have lived in Germany, said I. For a profession, I suppose. Yes, I said, thinking ahead. Civil service was my prepared answer to the next question, but again morbidly perhaps I saw a pitfall. The letter from my chief awaiting me at Nordenei. My name was known, and we were watched. It might be opened. Lord, how casual we have been! May I ask what? The Foreign Office. It sounded suspicious, but there it was. Indeed, in the Government service. When do you have to be back? That was how the question of our future intentions was raised, prematurely by me, for two conflicting theories were clashing in my brain. But the contents of the letter dogged me now, and, when at a loss tell the truth, was an axiom I was finding sound. Lord answered, pretty soon, in about a week, but I'm expecting a letter at Nordenei, which may give me an extension. Davis said it was a good-addressed give, I said, smiling. Naturally, said Von Brunning, dryly, the joke had apparently ceased to amuse him. But you haven't much time, then, have you? He added, unless you leave your skipper in the lurch. It's a long way to England, and the season is late for yachts. I felt myself being hurried. Oh, you don't understand, I explained. He's in no hurry. He's a man of leisure, aren't you, Davis? What? said Davis. I translated my cruel question. Yes, said Davis, with simple pathos. If I have to leave him, I shan't be missed. As an able seaman, at least, he'll just potter on down the islands, running aground and caging off, and arrive about Christmas. Or take the first fair gale to Dover, laughed the commander. Or that. So you see, we're in no hurry, and we never make plans. And as for a passage to England straight, I'm not such a coward as I was at first, but I draw the line at that. You're a curious pair of shipmates, what's your point of view, had Davis? I like this coast, said Davis, and we want to shoot some ducks. He was nervous and forgot himself. I had already satirised our sporting armament and exploits, and hoped the subject was disposed of. Ducks were pretexts, and might lead to complications. I particularly wanted a free hand. As to wildfowl, said our friend, I would like to give you gentlemen some advice. There are plenty to be got, now that autumn weather has set in. You wouldn't have got a shot in September, had Davis, I remember you asking about them when I saw you last. And even now it's early for amateurs. In hard winter weather a child can pick them up, but they're wild still, and want crafty hunting. You want a local punt, and above all a local man, you could stow him in your foxtel. And to go to work seriously. Now if you really wish for sport I could help you. I could get a trustworthy— Oh, it's too good of you, stammered Davis, in a more unhappy accent than usual. We can easily find one for ourselves, a man at Vangeroog offered. Oh, did he—interrupted from brooning, laughing—I'm not surprised. You don't know the freestlanders, they're guileless as I said, but they cling to their little perquisites. I translate it to Davis. They've been cheated out of wrecks, and they're the more sensitive about ducks, which are more lucrative than fish. A stranger is a poacher. You man would have made slight errors as to time and place. You said they were odd in their manner, didn't you, Davis? I put in. Look here, this is very kind of Commander von Bruning, but hadn't we better be certain of my plans before settling down to shoot? Let's put on direct to Nordenai and get that letter of mine, and then decide. But we shan't see you again, I suppose, Commander. Why not? I am cruising westwards and shall probably call at Nordenai. Come aboard if you're there, won't you? I should like to show you the blitz. Thanks very much, said Davis uneasily. Thanks very much, I said, as heartily as I could. Our party broke up soon after this. Well, gentlemen, I must take leave of you, said our friend. I have to drive to Easons. I shall be going back to the blitz on the evening tide, but you'll be busy then with your own boat. It had been a puzzling interview, but the greatest puzzle was still to come. As we went towards the door, von Bruning made a sign to me. We let Davis pass out and remain standing. One word in confidence with you, her carothers. He said, speaking low. You won't think me officious, I hope. I only speak out of keen regard for your friend. It is about the Dolmans. You see how the land lies. I wouldn't encourage him. Thanks, I said, but really. It's only a hint. He's a splendid young fellow, but if anything, you understand too honest and simple. I take it you have influence with him, and I should use it. I was not an earnest, I said. I have never seen the Dolmans. I thought they were friends of yours. I added, looking him straight in the eyes. I know them, but—he shrugged his shoulders—I know everybody. What's wrong with them? I said, point blank. Softly, her carothers, remember, I spoke out of pure friendliness to you as strangers, foreigners, and young. You I take to have discretion, or I should not have said a word. Still, I will add this. We know very little of her Dolman, of his origin, his antecedents. He is half a swede, I believe, certainly not a Prussian. Came to Nordenai three years ago, appears to be rich, and has joined in various commercial undertakings. Little scope about here? Oh, there is more enterprise than you think. A lot of bathing resorts, you know, speculation in land on these islands. Sharp practice. Oh, no, he's perfectly straight in that way. But he's a queer fellow of eccentric habits, and—and well, as I say, little is known of him. That's all just a warning. Come along. I saw that to press him further was useless. Thanks, I'll remember, I said. And look here, he added, as we walked down the passage. If you take my advice, you'll omit that visit to the Medusa altogether. He gave me a steady look, smiling gravely. How much do you know, and what do you mean, were the questions that's robbed in my thoughts. But I could not utter them, so I said nothing and felt for a young. Outside we joined Davis, who was knitting his brow over prospects. It just comes of going into places like this, he said to me. We may be stuck here for days. Too much wind to tow out was a dinghy, and too narrow a channel to beat in. Von Bruning was ready with a new proposal. Why didn't I think of it before? He said, I'll tow you out in my launch. Be ready at six thirty. We shall have water enough, then. My men will send you a warp. It was impossible to refuse, but a sense of being personally conducted again oppressed me, and the last hope of a bed in the inn vanished. Davis was none too effusive either. A tug meant a pilot, and he had had enough of them. He objected to towage on principle, I said. Just like him laughed the other. That settled then. A dog-cart was standing before the inn door in Reginas for Von Bruning. I was curious about Easons and his business there. Easons, he said, was the principal town of the district, four miles inland. I have to go there. He volunteered about a poaching case, a Dutchman trawling inside our limits. That's my work, you know, police duty. Had the words a deeper meaning? Do you have a catch in Englishman? I asked recklessly. Oh, very rarely, your countrymen don't come so far as this, except on pleasure. He bowed to us each and smiled. Not much of that to be got in Benzazil, I laughed. I'm afraid you'll have a dull afternoon. Look here, I know you can't leave your boat altogether, and it's no use asking her Davis. But will you drive into Easons with me and see a frisian town for what it's worth? Are you getting a dismal impression of Friesland? I excused myself, said I would stop with Davis. We would walk out over the sands and prospect for the evening sail. Well, good-bye, then, he said, till the evening, be ready for the warp at six thirty. He jumped up, and the cart rattled off through the mud, crossed the bridge, and disappeared into the dreary hinterland. CHAPTER XVII. Having the air. Has he gone to get the police, do you think? Said Davis grimly. I don't think so, said I. Let's go aboard before that customs-fellow button holds us. A diminished row of stolid frisians still ruminated over the dalsabella. Friend Grimm was visible, smoking on his forecastle. We went on board in silence. First of all, where exactly is Mehmet? I said. Davis pulled down the chart, said, there, and flung himself at full length on a sofa. The reader can see Mehmet for himself. South of Eust, abutting on the Ems delta, lies an extensive sandbank called Nordland, whose extreme western rim remains uncovered at the highest tides, the effect being to leave a sea-shaped island, a mere pairing of sand like a boomerang, merely two miles long, but only one hundred and fifty yards or so broad, of curiously symmetrical outline, except at one spot where it bulges to the widths of a quarter of a mile. On the English chart its nakedness was absolute, save for a beacon at the south, but the German chart marked a building at the point where the bulge occurs. This was evidently the depot, fancy living there, I thought, for the very name struck cold. No wonder Grimm was grim, and no wonder he was used to seek change of air. But the advantages of the site were obvious. It was remarkably isolated, even in a region where isolation is the rule, yet it was conveniently near the wreck, which, as we had heard, lay two miles out on the Euster Reef. Lastly, it was clearly accessible at any state of the tide, for the Sixth Fathom Channel of the Ems estuary runs hard up to it on the south, and thence sends off an eastward branch which closely borders the southern horn, thus offering an anchorage at once handy, deep, and sheltered from seaward gales. Such was Mehmet, as I saw it on the chart, taking in its features mechanically, for while Davis lay there heedless and taciturn, a pretensive interest was useless. I knew perfectly well what was between us, but I did not see why I should make the first move, for I had a grievance too, an old one. So I sat back on my sofa and jotted down in my notebook the heads of our conversation at the inn, while it was fresh on my memory, and strove to draw conclusions. But the silence continuing, and becoming absurd, I threw my pride to the winds, and my notebook on the table. I say, Davis, I said, I'm awfully sorry I chaffed you about Folland Dolman. No answer. Didn't you see I couldn't help it? I wished to heaven we had never come in here, he said, in a hard voice. It comes of landing, ever. I couldn't help smiling at this, but he wasn't looking at me. Here we are, given away, moved on, taken in charge, arranged for like cook's tourists. I couldn't follow your game, too infernally deep for me, but—that stung me. Look here, I said, I did my best. It was you that muddled it. Why did you harp on ducks? We could have got out of that. Why did you harp on everything idiotic? Your letter, the foreign office, the Cormoran, the wreck, the—your utterly unreasonable. Didn't you see what traps there were? I was driven the way I went. We started unprepared, and we'd drawly well out of it. Davis drove on blindly. It was bad enough telling all about the channels and exploring. Why, you agree to that yourself? I gave in to you. We can't explore any more now. There's the wreck, though. Oh, hang the wreck! It's all a blind, or you wouldn't have made so much of it. There are all these channels to be—oh, hang the channels! I know we wanted a free hand, but we've got to go to Nordernei some time, and if Dolman's away, why did you harp on Miss Dolman? said Davis. We had worked round, through idle recrimination, to the real point of departure. I knew Davis was not himself, and would not return to himself till the heart of the matter was reached. Look here, I said. You brought me out here to help you, because, as you say, I was clever, talked German, and liked yachting. I couldn't resist adding this. But directly you really want me, you turn around and go for me. Oh, I didn't mean all that, really, said Davis. I'm sorry, I was worried. I know, but it's your own fault. You haven't been fair with me. There's a complication in this business that you've never talked about. I've never pressed you, because I thought you would confide in me. You—I know I haven't, said Davis. Well, you see the result. Our hand was forced. To have said nothing about Dolman was folly. To have said he tried to wreck you was equal folly. The story we agreed on was the best and safest, and he told it splendidly. But for two reasons I had to harp on the daughter, one, because your manner, when they were mentioned, was so confused as to imperil our whole position. Two, because your story, though the safest, was at the best suspicious. Even on your own showing, Dolman treated you badly, discertiously, say, though you pretended not to have seen it. You want motive to neutralize that, and induce you to revisit him in a friendly way. I supplied it, or rather I only encouraged from ruining to supply it. Why revisit him, after all? said Davis. Oh, come! But don't you see what a hideous fix you've put me in? How catish I feel about it! I did see, and I felt a cat myself, as his full distress came home to me. But I felt too, that whosoever the fault we had drifted into a ridiculous situation, and were like characters in one of those tiresome plays where misunderstandings are manufactured, and so carefully sustained that the audience are too bored to wait for the dinner more. You can do that on the stage, but we wanted our dinner more. I'm very sorry, I said, but I wish you had told me all about it. Weren't you now? Just the bare matter of fact truth. I hate sentiment, and so do you. I find it very difficult to tell people things. Said Davis, things like this. I waited. I did like her, very much. Our eyes met for a second, in which all was said, that need be said, as between two of our phlegmatic race. And she's separate from him. That was the reason of all my indecisions. He hurried on. I only told you half a try. I know I ought to have been open, and asked your advice. But I'll let it slide. I've been hoping all along that we might find what we want, and win the game without coming to close quarters again. I no longer wandered at his devotion to the channel theory, since, built on conviction, it was thus doubly fortified. Yet you always knew what might happen, I said. At Schleyer you spoke of settling with Dolman. I know. When I thought of him I was mad. I made myself forget the other part. Which recurred at Brunsbüttel. I thought of the news we had there. Yes. Davis, we must have no more secrets. I'm going to speak out. Are you sure you've not misunderstood her? You say, and I'm willing to assume it, that Dolman's a traitor and a murderer. Who hanged the murder part? Said Davis, impatiently. What does that matter? Well, traitor, very good. But in that case I suspect his daughter. No, let me go on. She was useful to say the least. She encouraged you, you've told me that, to make that passage with them. Stop, Carothers. Said Davis firmly. I know you mean kindly, but it's no use. I believe in her. I thought for a moment. In that case, I said, I have something to propose. When we get out of this place, let's sail straight away to England. There, Commander von Bruning, I thought, you never can say I neglected your advice. No, exclaimed Davis, starting up and facing me. I'm hanged if we will. Think what's at stake. Think of that traitor, plotting with Germans, my God. Very good, I said. I'm with you for going on. But let's face facts. We must, Scott Stolman. We can't do so without hurting her. Can't we possibly? Of course not. Be sensible, man. Face that. Next point. It's absurd to hope that we need not revisit them. It's ten to one that we must, if we to succeed. His attempt on you is the whole foundation of our suspicions. And we don't even know for certain who he is yet. We're committed, I know, to going straight to Northern Eye now. But even if we weren't, should we do any good by exploring and prying? It's very doubtful. We know we watched, if not suspected, and that disposes of nine-tenths of our power. The channels? Yes, but is it likely they'll let us learn them by heart, if they are of such vital importance, even if we are thought to be bona fide jutsmen? And seriously, apart from their value in war, which I don't deny, are they at the root of this business? But we'll talk about that in a moment. The point now is, what shall we do if we meet the Dolmans? Beads of sweat stood on Davis' brow. I felt like a torturer, but it could not be helped. Tax him with having wrecked you? Our quest would be at an end. We must be friendly. You must tell the story you told today, and Chance is believing it. If he does, so much the better. If he doesn't, he won't dare say so, and we still have chances. We gain time, and have a tremendous hold on him. If we're friendly. Davis winced. I gave another turn to this crew. Friendly with them both, of course. You were before, you know. You liked her very much. You must seem so still. Oh, stop you infernal logic. Shall we chuck it and go to England? I asked again, as an inquisitor might say, have you had enough? No answer. I went on. To make it easier, you do like her still. I had roused my victim at last. What the devil do you mean, Carothers? That I'm to trade on my liking for her, on her innocence to, good God, what do you mean? No, no, not that. I'm not such a cad, or such a fool, or so ignorant of you. If she knows nothing of her father's character and likes you, and you like her, and you are what you are, oh, Heaven's man, face it, realise it. But what I mean is this. Is she, can she be, what you think? Imagine his position if we're right about him, the vilest creature on God's earth, a disgraceful past to have been driven to this. In the pay of Germany. I want to spare you misery. I was going to add, and if you're on your guard, to increase your chances. But the utter futility of such suggestions silenced me. What a plan I had foreshadowed. An enticing plan and a fair one, too, as against such adversaries, turning this baffling cross-currentitude advantage as many a time we had worked eddies of an adverse tide in these difficult seas. But Davis was Davis, and there was an end of it. His faith and simplicity shamed me. And the pity of it, the cruelty of it, was that his very qualities were his last torture, raising to the acutest pitch the conflict between love and patriotism. Remember that the latter was his dominant life motive, and that here and now was his chance, if you would gauge the bitterness of that conflict. It was in its last throes now. His elbows were on the table, and his twitching hands pressed on his forehead. He took them away. Of course we must go on. It can't be helped, that's all. And you believe in her? I'll remember what you've said. There may be some way out, and I'd rather not talk about that any more. What about the wreck? Further argument was futile. Davis, by an effort, seemed to sweep the subject from his thoughts, and I did my best to do the same. At any rate, the air was cleared, we were friends, and it only remained to grapple with the main problem in the light of the morning's interview. Every word that I could recollect of that critical conversation I reviewed with Davis, who had imperfectly understood what he had not been directly concerned in, and as I did so, I began to see with what cleverness each succeeding sentence of von Brunnings was designed to suit both of two contingencies. If we were innocent travellers, he was the genial host, communicative and helpful. If we were spies, his tactics had been equally applicable. He had outdone us in apparent candour, hiding nothing which he knew we would discover for ourselves, and contriving at the same time, both to gain knowledge and control of our movements, and to convey us warnings, which would only be understood if we were guilty, that we were playing an idle and perilous game, and had better desist. But in one respect we had had the advantage, and that was in the version Davis had given of his stranding on the horn-horn. Inscrutable as our questioner was, he let it appear not only that the incident was new to him, but that he conjectured at its sinister significance. A little cross-examination on detail would have been fatal to Davis's version, but that was where our strength lay. He dared not cross-examine, for fear of suggesting to Davis suspicions, which he might never have felt. Indeed, I thought I detected that fear underlying his whole attitude towards us, and it strengthened the conviction which had been growing in me since Grimm's furtive midnight visit, that the secret of this coast was so important and delicate a nature that rather than attract attention to it at all, overt action against intruders would be taken only in the last resort, and on irrefragurable proofs of guilty intention. Now for our clues. I had come away with two, each the germ of a distinct theory, and both obscured by the prevailing ambiguity. Now, however, as we thumbed the chart and I gave full reign to my fancy, one of them, the idea of memed, gained precision and vigor every moment. True, such information as we had about the French wreck, and his own connection with it, was placed most readily at our disposal by von Bruning, but I took it to be information, calculated only to forestall suspicion, since he was aware that we already associated him with Dolman, possibly also with Grimm, and it was only likely that in the ordinary course we should learn that the trio were jointly concerned in memed. So much for the facts, as for the construction he wished us to put on them, I felt sure it was absolutely false. He wished to give us the impression that the buried treasure itself was at the root of any mystery we might have scented. I do not know if the reader fully appreciated that astute suggestion, the hint that secrecy as to results was necessary, owing both to the Great Summit's stake and the flaw in the title, which he had been careful to inform us had passed through British hands. What he meant to imply was, don't be surprised if you have midnight visitors. Englishmen prowling along this coast are suspected of being Lloyd's agents. An ingenious insinuation, which, at the time it was made, had caused me to contemplate a new and much more commonplace solution of our enigma than had ever occurred to us, but it was only a passing doubt, and I dismissed it altogether now. The fact was, it either explained everything or nothing. As long as we held to our fundamental assumption that Davis had been decoyed into a death trap in September, it explained nothing. It was too fantastic to suppose that the exigencies of a commercial speculation would lead to such extremities as that. We were not in the South Sea Islands, nor were we the puppets of a romance. We were in Europe, dealing not only with the Dolman, but with an officer of the German Imperial Navy, who would scarcely be connected with a commercial enterprise which could conceivably be reduced to forwarding its objects in such a fashion. It was shocking enough to find him in relations with such a scandal at all, but it was explicable if the motive were imperial, not so if it were financial. No, to accept the suggestion, we must declare the whole quest a mere nest from beginning to end, the attempt on Davis a delusion of his own fancy, the whole structure we had built on it, baseless. Well, I can hear the reader saying, Why not? You, at any rate, were always a little skeptical. Granted, yet I can truthfully say I scarcely faltered for a moment. Much had happened since Schley fjord. I had seen the mechanism of the death trap. I had lived with Davis for a stormy fortnight, every hour of which had increased my reliance on his seamanship, and also, therefore, on his account of an event which depended largely for its correct interpretation on a balanced nautical judgment. Finally, I had been unconsciously realizing, and knew from his mouth to-day, that he had exercised and acted on that judgment in the teeth of personal considerations, which his loyal nature made overwhelming in their force. What, then, was the meaning of Mehmet? At the outset it riveted my attention on the em's estuary, whose mouth it adjoins. We had always rather neglected the em's in our calculations, with some excuse too, for at first sight its importance bears no proportion to that of the three greater estuaries. The latter bear vessels of the largest tonnage and deepest draft to the very keys of Hamburg, Bremerhaven, and the naval dockyard of Wilhelmshaven. While two of them, the Elbe and the Visa, are commerce carriers in the vastest scale for the whole empire. The em's, on the other hand, only serves towns of the second class. A glance at the chart explains this. You see a mostly imposing estuary on a grander scale than any of the other three taken singly, with a length of thirty miles and a frontage on the North Sea of ten miles, or one seventieth, roughly, of the whole seaboard, encumbered by outlying shoals and blocked in the centre by the island of Borkum, but presenting two fine deep-water tunnels to the incoming vessel. These roads are probably through enormous sheets of sand, unite, and approach the mainland in one stately stream, three miles in breadth. But then comes a sad falling off. The navigable fairway shoals and shrinks, middle grounds obstructed, and shelving four shores, persistently deny it that easy access to the land that alone can create great seaboard cities. All the ports of the Ems are tidal. The harbour of Dovzu, on the Dutch side, dries at low water, and Emden, the principal German port, can only be reached by a lock and a mile of canal. But this depreciation is only relative. Judged on its merits, and not by the standard of the Elbe, it is a very important river. Emden is a flourishing and growing port. For shallow craft the steam is navigable far into the interior, where aided by tributaries and allied canals. Notably, the connection with the Rhine at Dortmund, then approaching completion. It tabs the resources of a great area. Strategically, there was still less reason for underrating it. It is one of the great maritime gates of Germany, and it is the westernmost gate, the nearest to Great Britain and France. Contiguous to Holland. Its great forked delta presents two yawning breaches in that singular rampart of islets and shoals which mask the German seaboard, a seaboard itself so short in proportion to the empire's bulk that, as Davis used to say, every inch of it must be important. Warships could force these breaches, and so threaten the mainland at one of its most vulnerable points. Key accommodation is no object to such visitors. Intricate navigation, no deterrent. Even the heaviest battleships could approach within striking distance of the land, while cruisers and military transports could penetrate to the level of Emden itself. Emden, as Davis had often pointed out, is connected by canal with Wilhelm's Hafen on the yarder, a strategic canal designed to carry gunboats as well as merchandise. Now Memet was part of the outer rampart. Its tapering sickle of sand directly commanded the eastern breach. It must be connected with the defence of this breach. No more admirable base could be imagined, self-contained and isolated, yet sheltered, accessible, better than used and borkum. And supposing it were desired to shroud the nature of the work in absolute secrecy, what a pretext lay to hand in the wreck and its buried bullion, which lay in the offing opposite the fairway. On Memet was the depot for the salvage operations. Salvage work, with its dredging and diving, offered precisely the disguise that was needed. It was submarine, and so are some of the most important defences of ports, mines, and dirigible torpedoes. All the details of the story were suggestive. The small local company, the engineer from Bremen, who I wondered was he. The few shares held by von Bruning, enough to explain his visits. The stores and gear coming from Wilhelm's Hafen, a naval dockyard. Try other wood, I could not stir Davis' imagination as mine was stirred. He was spent on only seeing the objections, which of course were numerous enough. Could secrecy be ensured under pretext of salving a wreck? It must be a secret shared by many, divers, crews of tugs, employees of all sorts. I answered that trade secrets are often preserved under no less difficult conditions, and why not imperial secrets? Why the Ems are not the Elbe, he asked. Perhaps, I replied, the Elbe too holds similar mysteries. Noyak Island might, for all we knew, be another memmet, when cruising in that region we had had no eyes for such things absorbed in the preconceived theory of our own. Besides, we must not take ourselves too seriously. We were amateurs, not experts in coast defence, and on such vague grounds to fastidiously reject a clue which went so far as this one was to quarrel with our luck. There was a disheartening corollary to this latter argument that in my newborn zeal I shut my eyes to. As amateurs, we'll be capable of using our clue and gaining exact knowledge of the defences in question. Davis, I knew, felt this strongly, and I think it accounted for his lukewarm view of memmet more than he was aware. He clung more obstinately than ever to his channel theory, conscious that it offered the one sort of opportunity of which, with his particular gifts, he was able to take advantage. He admitted, however, that it was under a cloud at present, for if knowledge of the coast-wise navigation were a crime in itself, we should scarcely be sitting here now. It's something to do with it, anyhow, he persisted. 18. Imperial escort. Memmet gripped me, then, to the exclusion of a rival notion which had given me no little perplexity during the conversation with von Bruning. His reiterated advice that we should lose no time in picking up our anchor and chain had ended by giving me the idea that he was anxious to get us away from Benza zeal and the mainland. At first I had taken the advice partly as a test of our veracity. As I gave the reader to understand, and partly as an indirect method of lulling any suspicions which Grimm's midnight visit might have caused. Then it struck me that this might be over subtlety on my part, and the idea recurred when the question of our future plans cropped up and hampered me in deciding on a course. It returned again when von Bruning offered to tow us out in the evening. It was in my mind when I questioned him as to his business ashore, for it occurred to me that perhaps his landing here was not solely due to a wish to inspect the crew of the d'Alsabella. Then came his perfectly frank explanation with its sinister double entente for us, coupled with an invitation to me to accompany him to Isens. But on the principle of tinie aeodanaus, etc., I instantly smelt a ruse, not that I dreamt that I was to be decoyed into captivity, but if there was anything here which we too might discover in the few hours left to us, it was an ingenious plan to remove the most observant of the two till the hour of departure. Davis scorned them, and I had felt only a faint curiosity in these insignificant hamlets. Influenced, I am afraid, chiefly by a hankering after terror firmer, which the pitiless rigor of his training had been unable to cure. But it was imprudent to neglect the slightest chance. It was three o'clock, and I think both our brains were beginning to be adult with sinking in close confinement. I suggested that we should finish our council of war in the open, and we both donned oil-skins and turned out. The sky had hardened and banked into an uneven canopy of lead, and the wind drove before it a fine cold rain. You could hear the murmur of the rising flood on the sands outside, but the harbor was high above it still, and the dulcabella and the other boats squatted low in a bed of black slime. Native interests seemed to be at last asswaged, for not a soul was visible on the bank, I cannot call it a key, but the top of a black sour-wester with a feather of smoke curling round it showed above the forehead of the Cormoran. I wish I could get a look at your cargo, my friend, I thought to myself. We gazed at Benzazil in silence. There can't be anything here, I said. What can there be? said Davis. What about that dyke? I said with a sudden inspiration. From the bank we could see all along the coastline, which is dyked continuously, as I have already said. The dyke was here a substantial brick-faced embankment, very similar, though on a smaller scale, to that which had bordered the Elbe near Cuxhaven, and over whose summit we had seen the snouts of guns. I say, Davis, I said. Do you think this coast could be invaded? Along here, I mean, behind these islands. Davis shook his head. I've thought of that, he said. There's nothing in it. It's just the very last place on earth where a landing would be possible. No transport could get nearer than where the blitz is lying, four miles out. Well, you say every inch of this coast is important? Yes, but it's the water, I mean. Well, I want to see that dyke. Let's walk along it. My mushroom theory died directly our set foot on it. It was the most innocent structure in the world, like a thousand others, in Essex and Holland, topped by a narrow path, where we walked in single file, with arms akimbo to keep our balance in the gusts of wind. Below us lay the sands on one side, and rank fends on the other, interspersed with squares of pasture, ringed in with ditches. After half a mile, we dropped down and came back by a short-circuit inland, following a mazy path, which was mostly right angles at minute blank bridges, till we came to the Isons Road. We crossed this, and soon after found our way barred by this stream, I spoke of. This involved a detour to the bridge in the village, and a stealthy avoidance of the post office, for dread of its garrulous occupant. Then we followed the dyke in the other direction, and ended by a circuit over the sands, which were fast being covered by the tide, and so back to the yacht. Nobody appeared to have taken the slightest notice of our movements. As we walked we had tackled the last question, what are we to do, and found very little to say on it. We were to leave to-night, unless the Isons police appeared on the scene, and were committed to sailing direct to Nordenai, as the only alternative to duck-shooting under the espionage of a trustworthy nominee of von Brunnings. Beyond that, vagueness and difficulty of every sort. At Nordenai I should be fettered by my letter. If it seemed to have been opened and it ordered my return, I was limited to a weak or must-risk suspicion by staying. Dolman was away, according to von Brunning. Would probably be back soon, but how soon? Beyond Nordenai lay Mehmet. How to probe its secret? The ardour it had roused in me was giving way to a mortifying sense of impotence. The sight of the Kormoran, with her crew preparing for sea, was a pointed comment on my diplomacy, and most of all on my ridiculous survey of the dykes. When all was said and done we were protégés of von Brunning, and dogged by Grimm. Was it likely they would let us succeed? The tide was swirling into the harbour in walls of chocolate froth, and as it rose, all Benzazio, dominated as before by Herr Schenkel, struggled down to the key to watch the movements of shipping during the transient but momentous hour when the mud-hole was a seaport. The captain's steam-cutter was already afloat, and her sailors busy with side-lights and engines. When it became known that we, too, were to sail, and under such distinguished escort, the excitement intensified. Again our friend of the customs was spreading out papers to sign, while a throng of helpful frizzians, headed by the twin giants of the post-boat, thronged our decks and made us ready for sea in their own confused fashion. Again we were carried up to the inn and overwhelmed with advice and warnings and farewell toasts. Then back again to find the dulcabella afloat, and von Brunning just arrived, cursing the weather and the mud, chuffing Davis, genial and debonair as ever. Still that mainsail, you won't want it, he said. I'll tell you right out to Spiegerurg. It's your only anchorage for the night in this wind, under the island, near the Blitz, and that would mean a dead beat for you in the dark. The fact was so true, and the offer so timely, that Davis's faint protests were swept aside in a torrent of ridicule. And now I think of it, the commander ended. I'll make the trip with you for May. It'll be pleasanter and drier. We all three boarded the dulcabella, and then the end came. Our tow rope was attached, and at half past six the little launch jumped into the collar, and amidst a demonstration that could not have been more hearty if we had been ambassadors on a visit to a friendly power, we sidled out through the jetties. It took us more than an hour to cover the five miles to Spiegerurg, for the dulcabella was a heavy load in the stiff-head wind, and Davis, though he said nothing, showed undisguised mistrust of our tug's capacities. He had once left the helm to me, and flung himself on the gear, not resting till every rope was ready to hand, the mainsail reefed, the binocle lighted, and all ready for setting sail or anchoring at a moment's notice. Our guest watched these precautions with infinite amusement. He was in the highest and most mischievous humour, raining banter on Davis and mock sympathy on me, laughing at our huge compass, heaving the lead himself, startling us with imaginary soundings, and doubting if his men were sober. I offered entertainment and warmth below, but he declined on the ground that Davis would be tempted to cut the tow rope and make us pass the night on a safe sandbank. Davis took the railery unmoved. His work done, he took the tiller and sat bare-headed, intent on the launch, the course, the details, and chances of the present. I brought up cigars, and we settled ourselves facing him, our backs to the wind and spray. And so we made the rest of the passage. Von Brunning cuddled against me and the cabin hatch, alternately shouting a jest to Davis and talking to me in a light and charming vein, with just that shade of patronage that the disparity in our ages warranted. About my time in Germany, places, people and books I knew, and about life, especially young men's life, in England, a country he had never visited but hoped to. I, responding as well as I could, striving to meet his mood, acquit myself like a man, draw zest instead of humiliation from the irony of our position, but scarcely able to make headway against a numbing sense of defeat and incapacity. A queer thought was haunting me too, that such skill and judgment as I possessed was slipping from me as we left the land and faced again the rigours of this exacting sea. Davis, I very well knew, was under exactly the opposite spell, a spell which even the reproach of the toe-rope could not annul. His face in the glow of the binocle was beginning to wear that same look of contentment and resolve that I had seen on it that night we had sailed to Kiel from Schleifjord. Heaven knows he had more cause to worry than I, a casual comrade in an adventure which was peculiarly his, which meant everything on earth to him, but there he was, washing away perplexity in the salt wind, drawing counsel and confidence from the unfailing source of all his inspirations, the sea. Looks happy, doesn't he? said the captain once. I grunted that he did, ashamed to find how irritated the remark made me. You'll remember what I said, he added in my ear. Yes, I said, but I should like to see her. What is she like? Dangerous. I could well believe it. The hull of the blitz loomed up, and a minute later our cage was splashing overboard and the launch was backing alongside. Good night, gentlemen, said our passenger. You're safe enough here, and you can run across in 10 minutes in the morning and pick up your anchor if it's there still. Then give a fair wind west, to England, if you like. If you decide to stay a little longer in these parts, and I'm in reach, count on me to help you, to sport or anything else. We thanked him, shook hands, and he was gone. He's a thundering good chap anyhow, said Davis, and a heartily agreed. The narrow vigilant life began again at once. We were safe enough, in a sense, but a warped 20-pound anchor would poor security if the wind backed or increased. Plans for contingencies had to be made, and deck watches kept till midnight, when the weather seemed to improve, and stars appeared. The glass was rising, so we turned in and slept under the very wing, so to speak, of the imperial government. Davis, I said, when we were settled in our bunks, it's only a day's sail to Northern Eye, isn't it? With a fair wind less, if we go outside the island's direct. Well, it's settled then that we do that tomorrow. I suppose so. We've got to get the anchor first. Good night. END OF CHAPTER XIX THE RUBICAN It was a cold, vaporous dawn, the glass rising, and the wind falling to a light air still from the northeast. Our creased and sodden sails scarcely answered to it, as we crept across the oily swell to Langeauch. Fogs and calms, Davis prophesied. The blitz was a stir when we passed her, and soon after steamed out to sea. Once over the bar, she turned westward, and was lost to view in the haze. I should be sorry to have to explain how we found that tiny anchor-boy on the expressionless waste of grey. I only know that I hope they're laid incessantly, while Davis conned, till at last he was grabbing over side with a boat-hook, and there was the boy on deck. The cable was soon following it, and finally the rusty monster himself, more loathsome than usual after his long sojourn in the slime. That's all right, said Davis. Now we can go anywhere. Well, it's not an eye, isn't it? We've settled that. Yes, I suppose we have. I was wondering whether it wouldn't be shortest to go inside the Langeauch after all. Surely not, I urged. The tide's ebbing now, and the light's bad. It's new ground, with a watershed to cross, and we're safe to get a ground. All right, outside, ready about. We swung lazily round and headed for the open sea. I record the fact, but in truth Davis might have taken me where he liked, for no land was visible, only a couple of ghostly booms. It seems a pity to miss over that channel, said Davis with a sigh, just when the Cormoran can't watch us. We had not seen her at all this morning. I set myself till the late again, a verse to reopening a barren argument. Grimm had done his work for the present, I felt certain, and was on his way by the shortest road to Northern Eye and Mehmet. We were soon outside and heading west, our boom squared away, and the island sand dunes just apparent under our lee. Then the breeze died to the nearest draught, and left us rolling inert in a long swell. Consumed with impatience to get on, I saw fatality in this failure of wind, after a fortnight of unprofitable meanderings, when we had generally had too much of it, and always enough for our purpose. I tried to read below, but the vile squirting of the centre-board drove me up. Can't we go any faster? I burst out once. I felt that there ought to be a pyramid of gauzy canvas aloft, spinnickers flying jibs and what not. I don't go in for speed, said Davis shortly. He loyally did his best to shove her along, but puffs and calms were the rule all day, and it was only by towing in the dinghy for two hours in the afternoon that we covered the length of Langeaurg, and crept before dark to an anchorage behind Baltrum, its slug-shaped neighbour on the west. Strictly, I believe, we should have kept the sea all night, but I had not the great to suggest that course, and Davis was only too glad of an excuse for threading the shoals of the Akuma-i on a rising tide. The atmosphere had been slowly clearing as the day wore on, but we had scarcely anchored ten minutes before a blanket of white fog rolling in from seaward swallowed us up. Davis was already a field in the dinghy, and I had to guide him back with a foghorn, whose music roused hosts of seabirds from the surrounding flats, and brought them wheeling and complaining round us, a weird invisible chorus to my mournful solo. The fog hung heavy still at daybreak on the 20th, but dispersed partially under a cat's paw from the south about eight o'clock, in time for us to traverse the boomed channel behind Baltrum before the tide left the watershed. We shan't get far today, said Davis, with philosophy. And this sort of thing may go on for any time. It's a regular autumn anti-cyclone, glass 30.5 unsteady. That gale was the last of a stormy equinox. We took the inside route as a matter of course today. It was now the shortest to Noronai Harbour, and scarcely less intricate than the Wichter-i, which appeared to be almost totally blocked by banks, and is in fact the most impossible of all these outlets to the North Sea. But, as I say, this sort of navigation, always puzzling to me, was utterly bewildering in hazy weather. Any attempted orientation made me giddy. So I slaved at the lead, varying my labour with a fierce spout of kedgework when we grounded somewhere. I had two rests before two o'clock, one of an hour when we ran into a patch of windless fog, another of a few moments, when Davis said, There's Noronai. And I saw, surmounting a long slope of weedy sand, still wet with the receding sea, a cluster of sand-hills, exactly like a hundred others I had seen of late, but fraught with a new and unique interest. The usual formula, What have you got now? Check my reverie, and Helms-A-Lee, ended it for the time. We tacked on, for the wind had headed us, in very shallow water. Suddenly Davis said, Is that a boat ahead? Do you mean that Galleot? I asked. I could plainly distinguish one of those familiar craft about half a mile away, just within the limit of vision. The Comoran, do you think? I added. Davis said nothing, but grew inattentive to his work. Barely four, from me, passed unnoticed, and we touched once, but swung off under some play of the current. Then came abruptly, Stand by the anchor, let go. And we brought up in midstream of the narrow creek we were following. I triced up the main tack, and stowed the head-souls unaided. When I had done, Davis was still gazing to windward through his binoculars, and, to my astonishment, I noticed that his hands were trembling violently. I had never seen this happen before, even at moments when a false turn of the wrist meant death on a surf-buttered bank. What is it? I asked. Are you cold? That little boat, he said. I gazed to windward, too, and now saw a scrap of white in the distance in sharp relief. Small standing lug and jib, it's her right enough, said Davis to himself, in a sort of nervous stammer. Who? What? Medusa, stingy. He handed, or rather pushed, me the glasses, still gazing. Dolman? I exclaimed. No, it's hers, the one she always sails. She's come to meet us. Through the glasses the white scrap became a graceful little sail, squared away for the light following breeze. An angle of the creek hid the hull, then it glided into view. Someone was sitting aft, steering, man or woman, I could not say, for the sail hid most of the figure. For two full minutes, two long, pregnant minutes, we watched it in silence. The damp air was fogging the lenses, but I kept them to my eyes, for I did not want to look at Davis. At last I heard him draw a deep breath, straighten himself up, and give one of his characteristic, then he turned briskly aft, cast off the dinghy's painter, and pulled her up alongside. You come too, he said, jumping in and fixing the rollocks. His hands were steady again. I laughed and shoved the dinghy off. I'd rather you did, he said, defiantly. I'd rather stay. I'll tidy up and put the kettle on. Davis had taken a half-stroke, but paused. She oughtn't to come aboard, he said. She might like to, I suggested. Chilly day, long way from home, common courtesy. Carothers, said Davis. If she comes aboard, please remember that she's outside this business. There are no clues to be got from her. A little lecture which would have netted me more if I had not been exultantly telling myself that, once and for all, for good or ill, the Rubicon was past. It's your affair this time, I said. Run it as you please. He sculled away with vigorous strokes. Just as he is, I thought to myself. Bear-head, beaded with fog-deew, ancient oil-skin coat, only one button, grey jersey, grey woolen trousers, like a deep-sea fisherman's, stuffed into long boots. A vision of his anti-type, the cow's philanderer, crossed me for a second. As to his face, well, I could only judge by it and marvel that he was gripping his dilemma by eye the horn, as firmly as he gripped his skulls. I watched the two boats converging. They would meet in the natural course about three hundred yards away, but a hitch occurred. First the sailboat checked and slewed. A ground, I concluded. The rowboat leapt forward still, then checked, too. From both a great splashing of skulls floated across the still air, then silence. The summit of the watershed, a physical rubicon, prosaic and slimy, had still to be crossed, it seemed. But it could be evaded. Both boats headed for the northern side of the creek. Two figures were out on the brink, hauling on two painters. Then Davis was striding over the sand, and a girl, I could see her now, was coming to meet him. And then I thought it was time to go below and tidy up. Nothing on earth could have made the dartsabella's saloon a worthy reception room for a lady. I could only use hurried efforts to make it look its best, by plying a bunch of cotton waste and a floor brush, by pitching into racks and lockers the litter of pipes, charts, oddments of apparel, and so on, that had a way of collecting a fresh, however recently we had tidied up, by neatly arranging our demoralized library, and by lighting the stove and veiling the table under a clean white cloth. I suppose about twenty minutes had elapsed, and I was scrubbing fruitlessly at the smoky patch on the ceiling, when I heard the sound of oars and voices outside. I threw the cotton waste into the folksal, made an onslaught on my hands, and then mounted the companion ladder. Our own dinghy was just rounding up alongside, Davis sculling in the boughs, facing him in the stern a young girl, in a grey tamo shanta, loose waterproof jacket, and a dark surged skirt. The ladder, to be frigidly accurate, disclosing a pair of workmen like rubber boots, which, mutatas mutandis, were very like those Davis was wearing. Her hair, like his, was spangled with moisture, and her rose-brown skin struck a note of delicious colour against the sullen Stygian background. There he is, said Davis. Never did his minor-froined carothers sound so pleasantly in my ears, never so discordantly the froline dolman that followed it. Every syllable of the four was a lie. Two honest English eyes were looking up into mine, an honest English hand. Is this insular nonsense? Perhaps so, but I stick to it, a brown, firm hand. No, not so very small, my sentimental reader, was clasping mine. Of course I had strong reasons, apart from the racial instinct, for thinking her to be English, but I believe if I had had none at all, I should at any rate have congratulated Germany on a clever bit of plagiarism. By her voice, when she spoke, I knew that she must have talked to German habitually from childhood. Diction and accent were faultless, at least to my English ear, but the native constitutional ring was wanting. She came on board. There was a hollow discussion first about time and weather, but it ended as we all in our hearts wished it to end. None of us uttered our real scruples. Mine indeed were too new and rudimentary to be worth uttering, so I said common sense things about tea and warmth, but I began to think about my compact with Davis. Just for a few minutes, then, she said. I held out my hand and swung her up. She gazed round the deck and rigging with profound interest, a breathless, hungry interest, touching to see. You've seen her before, haven't you? I said. I've not been on board before, she answered. This struck me in passing as odd, but then I had only two few details from Davis about his days at Nordenei in September. Of course, that is what puzzled me, she exclaimed, suddenly, pointing to the mizzen. I knew there was something different. Davis had belayed the painter and now had to explain the origin of the mizzen. This was a cumbersome process, and his hero's attention soon wandered from the subject and became centred in him. His was already more than half in her, and the result was a golden opportunity for the discerning onlooker. It was very brief, but I made the most of it. Buried deep a few regrets, did a little heartfelt penance, told myself I had been a cynical fool not to have foreseen this, and faced the new situation with a sinking heart. I am not ashamed to admit that, for I was fond of Davis, and I was keen about the quest. She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davis. Had she been an unconscious tool, or only an unwilling one? If the latter, did she know the secret we were seeking? In the last degree unlikely, I decided. But true to the compact, whose importance I now fully appreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons, recoiling as strongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from any effort, direct or indirect, to gain information from such a source. It was not our fault, if by her own conversation and behaviour, she gave us some idea of how matters stood. Davis already knew more than I did. We spent a few minutes on deck, while she asked eager questions about our build, and gear, and seaworthiness, with a quaint mixture of professional acumen and personal curiosity. How did you manage alone that day? she asked Davis, suddenly. Oh, it was quite safe, was the reply, but it's much better to have a friend. She looked at me, and, well, I would have died for Davis there and then. Father said you would be safe, she remarked, with decision, a slight excess of decision, I thought. And that turned to some rope or block and pursued her questioning. She found the compass impressive, and the trappings of that hateful centre-board had a peculiar fascination for her. Was this the way we did it in England? was her constant query. Yet, in spite of a superficial freedom, we were all shy and constrained. The descent below was a welcome diversion, for we should have been less than human if we had not extracted some spontaneous fun from the humours of the saloon. I went down first to see about the tea, leaving them struggling for mutual comprehension over the theory of an English lifeboat. They soon followed, and I can see her now stooping in at the doorway, treading delicately like a kitten, past the obstructive centre-board, to a place on the starboard sofa. Then taking in her surroundings with a timid rapture, that broke into delight at all the primitive arrangements and dingy amenities of our den. She explored the cavernous recesses of the ripping gill, fingered the duck-guns and the miscellany in the racks, and peeped into the folksal with dainty awe. Everything was a source of merriment, from our cramped attitudes to the painful deficiency of spoons and the yachtiness. There is no other word to describe it, of the bread, which had been bought at Benzazio and had suffered from incarceration and the climate. This fact came out and led to some questions, while we waited for the water to boil about the gale and our visit there. The topic, a pregnant one for us, appeared to have no special significance to her. At the mention of von Bruning, she showed no emotion of any sort. On the contrary, she went out of her way, from an innocent motive that any one could have guessed, to show that she could talk about him with dispassionate detachment. He came to see us when you were here last, didn't he? she said to Davis. He often comes. He goes with father to Mehmet sometimes. You know about Mehmet? They are diving for money out of an old wreck. Yes, we had heard about it. Of course you have. Father is the director of the company, and Commander von Bruning takes great interest in it. They took me down in a diving-bell once. I murmured, indeed, and Davis soared laboriously at the bread. She must have misconstrued our sheepish silence, for she stopped and drew herself up, with just a touch of momentary auteur utterly lost on Davis. I could have laughed aloud at this transient little comedy of errors. Did you see any gold? said Davis at last, with husky salinity. Something had to be said, or we should defeat our own end. But I let him say it. He had not my faith in Mehmet. No, only Martin Timber. Oh, I forgot. You mustn't betray the company's secrets, I said, laughing. Commander von Bruning wouldn't tell us a word about the gold. There's self-denial, I said to myself. Oh, I don't think it matters much. She answered, laughing, too. You are only visitors. That's all, I remarked de Mule, just passing travellers. You will stop at Nordenei, she said, with naive anxiety. Her Davis said, I looked to Davis. It was his affair. Fair and square came his answer, in blunt dog-German. Yes, of course we shall. I should like to see your father again. Up to this moment I had been doubtful of his final decision, but ever since our explanation at Benzazeal I had had the feeling that I was holding his nose to a very cruel grindstone. This straight word, clear and direct, beyond anything I had hoped for, brought me to my senses, and showed me that his mind had been working far in advance of mine. And more, shaping a double purpose that I had never dreamt of. My father, said Frau Lein-Dollmann, yes, I am sure he will be very glad to see you. There was no conviction in her tone, and her eyes were distant and troubled. He is not at home now, is he? I asked. How did you know? A little maidenly confusion. Oh, Commander von Bruning! I might have added that it had been clear as daylight all along that this visit was in the nature of an escapade of which her father might not approve. I tried to say, I won't tell, without words, and may have succeeded. I told Mr. Davis when we first met, she went on. I expect him back very soon. Tomorrow, in fact, he rode from Amsterdam. He left me at Hamburg, and has been away since. Of course he will not know you, Jotis, back again. I think he expected Mr. Davis would stay in the Baltic, as the season was so late. But—but I am sure he will be glad to see you. Is the Medusa in Harbour? said Davis. Yes, but we are not living on her now. We are at our villa in the Schwanaly. My stepmother and I, that is. She added some details, and Davis gravely penciled down the address on a leaf of the log-book, a formality which somehow seemed to regularise the present position. We shall be at northern night tomorrow, he said. Meanwhile the kettle was boiling merrily, and I made the tea, a cocoa, I should say, for the menu was changed in deference to our visitors' tastes. This is fun, she said. And by common consent we abandoned ourselves, three youthful, hungry mariners, to the enjoyment of this impromptu picnic. Such a chance might never occur again, Carpalma Steum. But the banquet was never celebrated. As at Balthazar's feast there was a writing on the wall, no supernatural inscription but just a printed name, an English surname with title and initials, in cheap gilt lettering on the back of an old book. A silent sneering witness of our snug party. The catastrophe came and passed so suddenly that at the time I had scarcely even an inkling of what caused it, but I know now that this is how it happened. Our visitor was sitting at the forward end of the starboard sofa, close to the bulkhead. Davis and I were opposite her. Across the bulkhead, on the level with our heads, ran the bookshelf, whose contents, remember, I had carefully straightened only half an hour ago, little dreaming of the consequence. Some trifle, probably the log-book which Davis had reached down from the shelf, called her attention to the rest of our library. While busyed with the cocoa I heard her spelling out some titles, fingering leaves, and tweeting Davis with the little care he took of his books. Suddenly there was a silence which made me look up, to see a startled and pitiful change in her. She was staring at Davis with wide eyes and parted lips, a burning flush mounting on her forehead, and such an expression on her face as a sleepwalker might wear, who wakes in fear he knows not where. Half her mind was far away, laboring to construe some hideous dream of the past. Half was in the present, cringing before some sickening reality. She remained so for perhaps ten seconds, and then, plucky girl that she was, she mastered herself, looked deliberately round and up with a circular glance, strangely in the manner of Davis himself, and spoke. How late it was she must be going, her boat was not safe. At the same time she rose to go, or rather slid herself along the sofa, for rising was impossible. We sat like maniless louts in blank amazement. Davis at the outset had said, What's the matter in plain English, and then relapsed into stupefaction. I recovered myself the first, and protested in some awkward fashion about the cocoa, the time, the absence of fog. In trying to answer, her self-possession broke down, poor child, and her retreat became a blind flight, like that of a wounded animal, while every sordid circumstance seemed to accentuate her panic. She tilted the corner of the table in leaving the sofa and spilled cocoa over her skirt. She knocked her head with painful force against the sharp lintel of the doorway, and stumbled on the steps of the ladder. I was close behind, but when I reached the deck she was already on the counter, hauling up the dinghy. She had even jumped in and laid hands on the skulls, before any check came in her precipitated movements. Now that occurred to her the patent fact that the dinghy was ours, and that someone must accompany her to bring it back. Davis will row you over, I said. Oh no, thank you, she stammered. If you will be so kind, her carothers. It is your turn. No, I mean, I want— Go on, said Davis to me in English. I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the skulls from her. She seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davis handed down her jacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of us tried to better the situation by conventional apologies. It was left to her, at the last moment, to make a show of excusing herself, and attempt so brave and yet so wretchedly lame that I tingled all over with hot shame. She only made matters worse, and Davis interrupted her. How of Vida's zane, he said, simply. She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away. Davis turned sharp round and went below. There was no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide had risen a great deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take the skulls, but she took no notice and rode on, so that I was a silent passenger on the stem seat till we reached her boat, a spruce little yacht's gig, built to the native model, with his spoon-bow and tiny lee-boards. It was already afloat but riding quite safely to a rope and a little grappnel, which she proceeded to haul in. It was quite safe after all, you see, I said. Yes, but I could not stay. Hacker others, I want to say something to you. I knew it was coming, von Brunning's warning over again. I am made a mistake just now. It is no use calling on us to-morrow. Why not? You will not see my father. I thought he said he was coming back. Yes, by the morning steamer, but he would be very busy. We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to call for letters anyhow. You must not delay an hour, Count. The weather is very fine at last. It would be a pity to lose a chance of a smooth voyage to England. This season we have no fixed plans. Davis wants to get some shooting. My father would be much occupied. We can see you. I insisted on being obtuse, for though this fencing with an unstrung girl was hateful work, the quest was at stake. We were going to Nordenai, come what might, and sooner or later we must see Dolman. It was no use promising not to. I had given no pledge to von Bruning, and I would give none to her. The only alternative was to violate the compact, which the present fiasco had surely weakened. Speak out, and try and make an ally of her. Against her own father? I shrank from the responsibility, and counted the cost of failure, certain failure to judge by her conduct. She began to hoist her lug-sail in a day's shiftless fashion, while our two boats drifted slowly to Leawood. Father might not like it, she said, so low and from such tremulous lips that I scarcely caught her words. He does not like foreign as much. I am afraid he did not want to see her Davis again. But I thought, it was wrong of me to come aboard, I suddenly remembered, but I could not tell her Davis. I see, I answered. I will tell him. Yes, that he must not come near us. He will understand. I knew he would be very sorry, but, I added firmly, you can trust him implicitly to do the right thing. And how I prayed that this would content her. Thank heaven it did. Yes, she said. I am afraid I did not say good-bye to him. You will do so? She gave me her hand. One thing more, I added, holding it. Nothing had better be said about this meeting. No, no, nothing. It must never be known. I let go the gig's gunnel, and watched her tighten her sheet, and make a tack or two to Winwood. Then I rode back to the Delcibella as hard as I could. End of Chapter 19