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A Record of Secret Service Recently Achieved

Published by Smith, Elder, London, 1904

Contents

Maps and Charts

NOTE
The maps and charts are based on British and German Admiraltycharts,
with irrelevant details omitted.

General Map

Preface

A word about the origin and authorship of this book.

In October last (1902), my friend "Carruthers" visited me in mychambers, and, under a provisional pledge of secrecy, told mefrankly the whole of the adventure described in these pages. Tillthen I had only known as much as the rest of his friends, namely,that he had recently undergone experiences during a yachting cruisewith a certain Mr "Davies" which had left a deep mark on hischaracter and habits.

At the end of his narrative—which, from its bearing onstudies and speculations of my own, as well as from its intrinsicinterest and racy delivery, made a very deep impression onme—he added that the important facts discovered in the courseof the cruise had, without a moment's delay, been communicated tothe proper authorities, who, after some dignified incredulity, duein part, perhaps, to the pitiful inadequacy of their own secretservice, had, he believed, made use of them, to avert a greatnational danger. I say "he believed", for though it was beyondquestion that the danger was averted for the time, it was doubtfulwhether they had stirred a foot to combat it, the secret discoveredbeing of such a nature that mere suspicion of it on this side waslikely to destroy its efficacy.

There, however that may be, the matter rested for a while, as,for personal reasons which will be manifest to the reader, he andMr "Davies" expressly wished it to rest.

But events were driving them to reconsider their decision. Theseseemed to show that the information wrung with such peril andlabour from the German Government, and transmitted so promptly toour own, had had none but the most transitory influence on ourpolicy. Forced to the conclusion that the national security wasreally being neglected, the two friends now had a mind to maketheir story public; and it was about this that "Carruthers" wishedfor my advice. The great drawback was that an Englishman, bearingan honoured name, was disgracefully implicated, and that unlessinfinite delicacy were used, innocent persons, and, especially, ayoung lady, would suffer pain and indignity, if his identity wereknown. Indeed, troublesome rumours, containing a grain of truth anda mass of falsehood, were already afloat.

After weighing both sides of the question, I gave my voteemphatically for publication. The personal drawbacks could, Ithought, with tact be neutralised; while, from the public point ofview, nothing but good could come from submitting the case to thecommon sense of the country at large. Publication, therefore, wasagreed upon, and the next point was the form it should take."Carruthers", with the concurrence of Mr "Davies", was for a baldexposition of the essential facts, stripped of their warm humanenvelope. I was strongly against this course, first, because itwould aggravate instead of allaying the rumours that were current;secondly, because in such a form the narrative would not carryconviction, and would thus defeat its own end. The persons and theevents were indissolubly connected; to evade, abridge, suppress,would be to convey to the reader the idea of a concocted hoax.Indeed, I took bolder ground still, urging that the story should bemade as explicit and circ*mstantial as possible, frankly andhonestly for the purpose of entertaining and so of attracting awide circle of readers. Even anonymity was undesirable.Nevertheless, certain precautions were imperatively needed.

To cut the matter short, they asked for my assistance andreceived it at once. It was arranged that I should edit the book;that "Carruthers" should give me his diary and recount to me infuller detail and from his own point of view all the phases of the"quest", as they used to call it; that Mr "Davies" should meet mewith his charts and maps and do the same; and that the whole storyshould be written, as from the mouth of the former, with itshumours and errors, its light and its dark side, just as ithappened; with the following few limitations. The year it belongsto is disguised; the names of persons are throughout fictitious;and, at my instance certain slight liberties have been taken toconceal the identity of the English characters.

Remember, also that these persons are living now in the midst ofus, and if you find one topic touched on with a light andhesitating pen, do not blame the Editor, who, whether they areknown or not, would rather say too little than say a word thatmight savour of impertinence.

E. C.

March, 1903

CHAPTER I.
The Letter

I have read of men who, when forced by their calling to live forlong periods in utter solitude—save for a few blackfaces—have made it a rule to dress regularly for dinner inorder to maintain their self-respect and prevent a relapse intobarbarism. It was in some such spirit, with an added touch ofself-consciousness, that, at seven o'clock in the evening ofSeptember 23 in a recent year, I was making my evening toilet in mychambers in Pall Mall. I thought the date and the place justifiedthe parallel; to my advantage even; for the obscure Burmeseadministrator might well be a man of blunted sensibilities andcoarse fibre, and at least he is alone with nature, whileI—well, a young man of condition and fashion, who knows theright people, belongs to the right clubs, has a safe, possibly abrilliant, future in the Foreign Office—may be excused for asense of complacent martyrdom, when, with his keen appreciation ofthe social calendar, he is doomed to the outer solitude of Londonin September. I say "martyrdom", but in fact the case wasinfinitely worse. For to feel oneself a martyr, as everybody knows,is a pleasurable thing, and the true tragedy of my position wasthat I had passed that stage. I had enjoyed what sweets it had tooffer in ever dwindling degree since the middle of August, whenties were still fresh and sympathy abundant. I had been consciousthat I was missed at Morven Lodge party. Lady Ashleigh herself hadsaid so in the kindest possible manner, when she wrote toacknowledge the letter in which I explained, with an effectivelyaustere reserve of language, that circ*mstances compelled me toremain at my office. "We know how busy you must be just now", shewrote, "and I do hope you won't overwork; we shall all missyou very much." Friend after friend "got away" to sport and freshair, with promises to write and chaffing condolences, and as eachdeserted the sinking ship, I took a grim delight in my misery,positively almost enjoying the first week or two after my world hadbeen finally dissipated to the four bracing winds of heaven. Ibegan to take a spurious interest in the remaining five millions,and wrote several clever letters in a vein of cheap satire,indirectly suggesting the pathos of my position, but indicatingthat I was broad-minded enough to find intellectual entertainmentin the scenes, persons, and habits of London in the dead season. Ieven did rational things at the instigation of others. For, thoughI should have liked total isolation best, I, of course, found thatthere was a sediment of unfortunates like myself, who, unlike me,viewed the situation in a most prosaic light. There were riverexcursions, and so on, after office-hours; but I dislike the riverat any time for its noisy vulgarity, and most of all at thisseason. So I dropped out of the fresh air brigade and declinedH——'s offer to share a riverside cottage and run up totown in the mornings. I did spend one or two week-ends with theCatesbys in Kent; but I was not inconsolable when they let theirhouse and went abroad, for I found that such partial compensationsdid not suit me. Neither did the taste for satirical observationlast. A passing thirst, which I dare say many have shared, foradventures of the fascinating kind described in the New ArabianNights led me on a few evenings into some shady haunts in Sohoand farther eastward; but was finally quenched one sultry Saturdaynight after an hour's immersion in the reeking atmosphere of a lowmusic-hall in Ratcliffe Highway, where I sat next a portly femalewho suffered from the heat, and at frequent intervals refreshedherself and an infant from a bottle of tepid stout.

By the first week in September I had abandoned all palliatives,and had settled into the dismal but dignified routine of office,club, and chambers. And now came the most cruel trial, for thehideous truth dawned on me that the world I found so indispensablecould after all dispense with me. It was all very well for LadyAshleigh to assure me that I was deeply missed; but a letter fromF——, who was one of the party, written "in haste, juststarting to shoot", and coming as a tardy reply to one of mycleverest, made me aware that the house party had suffered littlefrom my absence, and that few sighs were wasted on me, even in thequarter which I had assumed to have been discreetly alluded to bythe underlined all in Lady Ashleigh's "we shall allmiss you". A thrust which smarted more, if it bit less deeply, camefrom my cousin Nesta, who wrote: "It's horrid for you to have to bebaking in London now; but, after all, it must be a great pleasureto you" (malicious little wretch!) "to have such interesting andimportant work to do." Here was a nemesis for an innocent illusionI had been accustomed to foster in the minds of my relations andacquaintances, especially in the breasts of the trustful andadmiring maidens whom I had taken down to dinner in the last twoseasons; a fiction which I had almost reached the point ofbelieving in myself. For the plain truth was that my work wasneither interesting nor important, and consisted chiefly at presentin smoking cigarettes, in saying that Mr So-and-So was away andwould be back about October 1, in being absent for lunch fromtwelve till two, and in my spare moments making précisof—let us say—the less confidential consular reports,and squeezing the results into cast-iron schedules. The reason ofmy detention was not a cloud on the internationalhorizon—though I may say in passing that there was such acloud—but a caprice on the part of a remote and mightypersonage, the effect of which, ramifying downwards, had dislocatedthe carefully-laid holiday plans of the humble juniors, and in myown small case had upset the arrangement between myself andK——, who positively liked the dog-days inWhitehall.

Only one thing was needed to fill my cup of bitterness, and thisit was that specially occupied me as I dressed for dinner thisevening. Two days more in this dead and fermenting city and myslavery would be at an end. Yes, but—irony ofironies!—I had nowhere to go to! The Morven Lodge party wasbreaking up. A dreadful rumour as to an engagement which had beenone of its accursed fruits tormented me with the fresh certaintythat I had not been missed, and bred in me that most desolatingbrand of cynicism which is produced by defeat throughinsignificance. Invitations for a later date, which I had declinedin July with a gratifying sense of being much in request, now roseup spectrally to taunt me. There was at least one which I couldeasily have revived, but neither in this case nor in any other hadthere been any renewal of pressure, and there are moments when thedifference between proposing oneself and surrendering as a prize toone of several eagerly competing hostesses seems too crushing to becontemplated. My own people were at Aix for my father's gout; tojoin them was a pis-aller whose banality was repellent.Besides, they would be leaving soon for our home in Yorkshire, andI was not a prophet in my own country. In short, I was at theextremity of depression.

The usual preliminary scuffle on the staircase prepared me forthe knock and entry of Withers. (One of the things which had forsome time ceased to amuse me was the laxity of manners, proper tothe season, among the servants of the big block of chambers where Ilived.) Withers demurely handed me a letter bearing a Germanpostmark and marked "Urgent". I had just finished dressing, and wascollecting my money and gloves. A momentary thrill of curiositybroke in upon my depression as I sat down to open it. A corner onthe reverse of the envelope bore the blotted legend: "Very sorry,but there's one other thing—a pair of rigging screws fromCarey and Neilson's, size 1⅜, galvanised." Here itis:

Yacht Dulcibella,
Flensburg, Schleswig-Holstein, Sept. 21.

This letter marked an epoch for me; but I little suspected thefact as I crumpled it into my pocket and started languidly on thevoie douloureuse which I nightly followed to the club. InPall Mall there were no dignified greetings to be exchanged nowwith well-groomed acquaintances. The only people to be seen weresome late stragglers from the park, with a perambulator and somehot and dusty children lagging fretfully behind; some rusticsightseers draining the last dregs of the daylight in an effort tomake out from their guide-books which of these reverend piles waswhich; a policeman and a builder's cart. Of course the club was astrange one, both of my own being closed for cleaning, acoincidence expressly planned by Providence for my inconvenience.The club which you are "permitted to make use of" on theseoccasions always irritates with its strangeness and discomfort. Thefew occupants seem odd and oddly dressed, and you wonder how theygot there. The particular weekly that you want is not taken in; thedinner is execrable, and the ventilation a farce. All these evilsoppressed me to-night. And yet I was puzzled to find that somewherewithin me there was a faint lightening of the spirits; causeless,as far as I could discover. It could not be Davies's letter.Yachting in the Baltic at the end of September! The very idea madeone shudder. Cowes, with a pleasant party and hotels handy, was allvery well. An August cruise on a steam yacht in French waters orthe Highlands was all very well; but what kind of a yacht was this?It must be of a certain size to have got so far, but I thought Iremembered enough of Davies's means to know that he had no money towaste on luxuries. That brought me to the man himself. I had knownhim at Oxford—not as one of my immediate set; but we were asociable college, and I had seen a good deal of him, liking him forhis physical energy combined with a certain simplicity and modesty,though, indeed, he had nothing to be conceited about; liked him, infact, in the way that at that receptive period one likes many menwhom one never keeps up with later. We had both gone down in thesame year—three years ago now. I had gone to France andGermany for two years to learn the languages; he had failed for theIndian Civil, and then had gone into a solicitor's office. I hadonly seen him since at rare intervals, though I admitted to myselfthat for his part he had clung loyally to what ties of friendshipthere were between us. But the truth was that we had drifted apartfrom the nature of things. I had passed brilliantly into myprofession, and on the few occasions I had met him since I made mytriumphant début in society I had found nothing left incommon between us. He seemed to know none of my friends, he dressedindifferently, and I thought him dull. I had always connected himwith boats and the sea, but never with yachting, in the sense thatI understood it. In college days he had nearly persuaded me intosharing a squalid week in some open boat he had picked up, and wasgoing to sail among some dreary mudflats somewhere on the eastcoast. There was nothing else, and the funereal function of dinnerdrifted on. But I found myself remembering at the entréethat I had recently heard, at second or third hand, of somethingelse about him—exactly what I could not recall. When Ireached the savoury, I had concluded, so far as I had centred mymind on it at all, that the whole thing was a culminating irony,as, indeed, was the savoury in its way. After the wreck of mypleasant plans and the fiasco of my martyrdom, to be asked asconsolation to spend October freezing in the Baltic with aneccentric nonentity who bored me! Yet, as I smoked my cigar in theghastly splendour of the empty smoking-room, the subject came upagain. Was there anything in it? There were certainly noalternatives at hand. And to bury myself in the Baltic at thisunearthly time of year had at least a smack of tragic thoroughnessabout it.

I pulled out the letter again, and ran down its impulsivestaccato sentences, affecting to ignore what a gust of fresh air,high spirits, and good fellowship this flimsy bit of paper waftedinto the jaded club-room. On reperusal, it was full of evilpresage—"A1 scenery"—but what of equinoctial storms andOctober fogs? Every sane yachtsman was paying off his crew now."There ought to be duck"—vague, very vague. "If it gets coldenough"—cold and yachting seemed to be a gratuitouslymonstrous union. His pals had left him; why? "Not the 'yachting'brand"; and why not? As to the size, comfort, and crew of theyacht—all cheerfully ignored; so many maddening blanks. And,by the way, why in Heaven's name "a prismatic compass"? I fingereda few magazines, played a game of fifty with a friendly old fogey,too importunate to be worth the labour of resisting, and went backto my chambers to bed, ignorant that a friendly Providence had cometo my rescue; and, indeed, rather resenting any clumsy attempt atsuch friendliness.

CHAPTER II.
The Dulcibella

That two days later I should be found pacing the deck of theFlushing steamer with a ticket for Hamburg in my pocket may seem astrange result, yet not so strange if you have divined my state ofmind. You will guess, at any rate, that I was armed with theconviction that I was doing an act of obscure penance, rumours ofwhich might call attention to my lot and perhaps awaken remorse inthe right quarter, while it left me free to enjoy myselfunobtrusively in the remote event of enjoyment being possible.

The fact was that, at breakfast on the morning after the arrivalof the letter, I had still found that inexplicable lightening whichI mentioned before, and strong enough to warrant a revival of thepros and cons. An important pro which I had not thought of beforewas that after all it was a good-natured piece of unselfishness tojoin Davies; for he had spoken of the want of a pal, and seemedhonestly to be in need of me. I almost clutched at thisconsideration. It was an admirable excuse, when I reached my officethat day, for a resigned study of the Continental Bradshaw, and anorder to Carter to unroll a great creaking wall-map of Germany andfind me Flensburg. The latter labour I might have saved him, but itwas good for Carter to have something to do; and his patientignorance was amusing. With most of the map and what it suggested Iwas tolerably familiar, for I had not wasted my year in Germany,whatever I had done or not done since. Its people, history,progress, and future had interested me intensely, and I had stillfriends in Dresden and Berlin. Flensburg recalled the Danish war of'64, and by the time Carter's researches had ended in success I hadforgotten the task set him, and was wondering whether the prospectof seeing something of that lovely region of Schleswig-Holstein,[See Map A] as I knew from hearsay thatit was, was at all to be set against such an uncomfortable way ofseeing it, with the season so late, the company so unattractive,and all the other drawbacks which I counted and treasured as proofsof my desperate condition, if I were to go. It needed littleto decide me, and I think K——'s arrival fromSwitzerland, offensively sunburnt, was the finishing touch. Hisgreeting was "Hullo, Carruthers, you here? Thought you had got awaylong ago. Lucky devil, though, to be going now, just in time forthe best driving and the early pheasants. The heat's been shockingout there. Carter, bring me a Bradshaw"—(an extraordinarybook, Bradshaw, turned to from habit, even when least wanted, asmen fondle guns and rods in the close season).

By lunch-time the weight of indecision had been removed, and Ifound myself entrusting Carter with a telegram to Davies, P.O.,Flensburg. "Thanks; expect me 9.34 p.m. 26th"; which produced,three hours later, a reply: "Delighted; please bring a No. 3Rippingille stove"—a perplexing and ominous direction, whichsomehow chilled me in spite of its subject matter.

Indeed, my resolution was continually faltering. It falteredwhen I turned out my gun in the evening and thought of the grouseit ought to have accounted for. It faltered again when Icontemplated the miscellaneous list of commissions, sown broadcastthrough Davies's letter, to fulfil which seemed to make me awilling tool where my chosen rôle was that of an embitteredexile, or at least a condescending ally. However, I faced thecommissions manfully, after leaving the office.

At Lancaster's I inquired for his gun, was received coolly, andhad to pay a heavy bill, which it seemed to have incurred, beforeit was handed over. Having ordered the gun and No. 4's to be sentto my chambers, I bought the Raven mixture with that peculiar senseof injury which the prospect of smuggling in another's behalfalways entails; and wondered where in the world Carey and Neilson'swas, a firm which Davies spoke of as though it were as well knownas the Bank of England or the Stores, instead of specialising in"rigging-screws", whatever they might be. They sounded important,though, and it would be only polite to unearth them. I connectedthem with the "few repairs," and awoke new misgivings. At theStores I asked for a No. 3 Rippingille stove, and was confrontedwith a formidable and hideous piece of ironmongery, which burnedpetroleum in two capacious tanks, horribly prophetic of a smell ofwarm oil. I paid for this miserably, convinced of its grimefficiency, but speculating as to the domestic conditions whichcaused it to be sent for as an afterthought by telegram. I alsoasked about rigging-screws in the yachting department, but learntthat they were not kept in stock; that Carey and Neilson's wouldcertainly have them, and that their shop was in the Minories, inthe far east, meaning a journey nearly as long as to Flensburg, andtwice as tiresome. They would be shut by the time I got there, soafter this exhausting round of duty I went home in a cab, omitteddressing for dinner (an epoch in itself), ordered a chop up fromthe basem*nt kitchen, and spent the rest of the evening packing andwriting, with the methodical gloom of a man setting his affairs inorder for the last time.

The last of those airless nights passed. The astonished Witherssaw me breakfasting at eight, and at 9.30 I was vacantly examiningrigging-screws with what wits were left me after a sulphurous ridein the underground to Aldgate. I laid great stress on the 3/8's,and the galvanism, and took them on trust, ignorant as to theirfunctions. For the eleven-shilling oilskins I was referred to avillainous den in a back street, which the shopman said they alwaysrecommended, and where a dirty and bejewelled Hebrew chaffered withme (beginning at 18s.) over two reeking orange slabsdistantly resembling moieties of the human figure. Their odour mademe close prematurely for 14s., and I hurried back (for I wasdue there at 11) to my office with my two disreputable brown-paperparcels, one of which made itself so noticeable in the closeofficial air that Carter attentively asked if I would like to haveit sent to my chambers, and K—— was inquisitive tobluntness about it and my movements. But I did not care toenlighten K——, whose comments I knew would beprovokingly envious or wounding to my pride in some way.

I remembered, later on, the prismatic compass, and wired to theMinories to have one sent at once, feeling rather relieved that Iwas not present there to be cross-examined as to size and make. Thereply was, "Not stocked; try surveying-instrument maker"—areply both puzzling and reassuring, for Davies's request for acompass had given me more uneasiness than anything, while, to findthat what he wanted turned out to be a surveying-instrument, was ano less perplexing discovery. That day I made my last précisand handed over my schedules—Procrustean beds, whereunwilling facts were stretched and tortured—and said good-byeto my temporary chief, genial and lenient M——, whowished me a jolly holiday with all sincerity.

At seven I was watching a cab packed with my personal luggageand the collection of unwieldy and incongruous packages that myshopping had drawn down on me. Two deviations after that wretchedprismatic compass—which I obtained in the end secondhand,faute de mieux, near Victoria, at one of those showy shopswhich look like jewellers' and are really pawnbrokers'—nearlycaused me to miss my train. But at 8.30 I had shaken off the dustof London from my feet, and at 10.30 I was, as I have announced,pacing the deck of a Flushing steamer, adrift on this fatuousholiday in the far Baltic.

An air from the west, cooled by a midday thunderstorm, followedthe steamer as she slid through the calm channels of the Thamesestuary, passed the cordon of scintillating lightships that watchover the sea-roads to the imperial city like pickets round asleeping army, and slipped out into the dark spaces of the NorthSea. Stars were bright, summer scents from the Kent cliffs mingledcoyly with vulgar steamer-smells; the summer weather heldimmutably. Nature, for her part, seemed resolved to be no party tomy penance, but to be imperturbably bent on shedding mild ridiculeover my wrongs. An irresistible sense of peace and detachment,combined with that delicious physical awakening that pulses throughthe nerve-sick townsman when city airs and bald routine are leftbehind him, combined to provide me, however thankless a subject,with a solid background of resignation. Stowing this safely away, Icould calculate my intentions with cold egotism. If the weatherheld I might pass a not intolerable fortnight with Davies. When itbroke up, as it was sure to, I could easily excuse myself from thepursuit of the problematical ducks; the wintry logic of factswould, in any case, decide him to lay up his yacht, for he couldscarcely think of sailing home at such a season. I could then takea chance lying ready of spending a few weeks in Dresden orelsewhere. I settled this programme comfortably and then turnedin.

From Flushing eastward to Hamburg, then northward to Flensburg,I cut short the next day's sultry story. Past dyke and windmill andstill canals, on to blazing stubbles and roaring towns; at thelast, after dusk, through a quiet level region where the trainpottered from one lazy little station to another, and at teno'clock I found myself, stiff and stuffy, on the platform atFlensburg, exchanging greetings with Davies.

"It's awfully good of you to come."

"Not at all; it's very good of you to ask me."

We were both of us ill at ease. Even in the dim gaslight heclashed on my notions of a yachtsman—no cool white ducks orneat blue serge; and where was the snowy crowned yachting cap, thatprecious charm that so easily converts a landsman into a dashingmariner? Conscious that this impressive uniform, in highperfection, was lying ready in my portmanteau, I felt oddly guilty.He wore an old Norfolk jacket, muddy brown shoes, grey flanneltrousers (or had they been white?), and an ordinary tweed cap. Thehand he gave me was horny, and appeared to be stained with paint;the other one, which carried a parcel, had a bandage on it whichwould have borne renewal. There was an instant of mutualinspection. I thought he gave me a shy, hurried scrutiny as thoughto test past conjectures, with something of anxiety in it, andperhaps (save the mark!) a tinge of admiration. The face wasfamiliar, and yet not familiar; the pleasant blue eyes, open,clean-cut features, unintellectual forehead were the same; so werethe brisk and impulsive movements; there was some change; but themoment of awkward hesitation was over and the light was bad; and,while strolling down the platform for my luggage, we chatted withconstraint about trivial things.

"By the way," he suddenly said, laughing, "I'm afraid I'm notfit to be seen; but it's so late it doesn't matter. I've beenpainting hard all day, and just got it finished. I only hope weshall have some wind to-morrow—it's been hopelessly calmlately. I say, you've brought a good deal of stuff," he concluded,as my belongings began to collect.

Here was a reward for my submissive exertions in the fareast!

"You gave me a good many commissions!"

"Oh, I didn't mean those things," he said, absently. "Thanks forbringing them, by the way. That's the stove, I suppose; cartridges,this one, by the weight. You got the rigging-screws all right, Ihope? They're not really necessary, of course" (I nodded vacantly,and felt a little hurt); "but they're simpler than lanyards, andyou can't get them here. It's that portmanteau," he said, slowly,measuring it with a doubtful eye. "Never mind! we'll try. Youcouldn't do with the Gladstone only, I suppose? You see, thedinghy—h'm, and there's the hatchway, too"—he was lostin thought. "Anyhow, we'll try. I'm afraid there are no cabs; butit's quite near, and the porter'll help."

Sickening forebodings crept over me, while Davies shouldered myGladstone and clutched at the parcels.

"Aren't your men here?" I asked, faintly.

"Men?" He looked confused. "Oh, perhaps I ought to have toldyou, I never have any paid hands; it's quite a small boat, youknow—I hope you didn't expect luxury. I've managed hersingle-handed for some time. A man would be no use, and a horriblenuisance." He revealed these appalling truths with a cheerfulassurance, which did nothing to hide a naïve apprehension of theireffect on me. There was a check in our mobilisation.

"It's rather late to go on board, isn't it?" I said, in a woodenvoice. Someone was turning out the gaslights, and the porter yawnedostentatiously. "I think I'd rather sleep at an hotel to-night." Astrained pause.

"Oh, of course you can do that, if you like," said Davies, intransparent distress of mind. "But it seems hardly worth while tocart this stuff all the way to an hotel (I believe they're all onthe other side of the harbour), and back again to the boatto-morrow. She's quite comfortable, and you're sure to sleep well,as you're tired."

"We can leave the things here," I argued feebly, "and walk overwith my bag."

"Oh, I shall have to go aboard anyhow," he rejoined; "Inever sleep on shore."

He seemed to be clinging timidly, but desperately, to somediplomatic end. A stony despair was invading me and paralysingresistance. Better face the worst and be done with it.

"Come on," I said, grimly.

Heavily loaded, we stumbled over railway lines and rubble heaps,and came on the harbour. Davies led the way to a stairway, whoseweedy steps disappeared below in gloom.

"If you'll get into the dinghy," he said, all briskness now,"I'll pass the things down."

I descended gingerly, holding as a guide a sodden painter whichended in a small boat, and conscious that I was collecting slime oncuffs and trousers.

"Hold up!" shouted Davies, cheerfully, as I sat down suddenlynear the bottom, with one foot in the water.

I climbed wretchedly into the dinghy and awaited events.

"Now float her up close under the quay wall, and make fast tothe ring down there," came down from above, followed by the slackof the sodden painter, which knocked my cap off as it fell. "Allfast? Any knot'll do," I heard, as I grappled with this loathsometask, and then a big, dark object loomed overhead and was loweredinto the dinghy. It was my portmanteau, and, placed athwart,exactly filled all the space amidships. "Does it fit?" was theanxious inquiry from aloft.

"Beautifully."

"Capital!"

Scratching at the greasy wall to keep the dinghy close to it, Ireceived in succession our stores, and stowed the cargo as best Icould, while the dinghy sank lower and lower in the water, and itsprecarious superstructure grew higher.

"Catch!" was the final direction from above, and a damp softparcel hit me in the chest. "Be careful of that, it's meat. Nowback to the stairs!"

I painfully acquiesced, and Davies appeared.

"It's a bit of a load, and she's rather deep; but I thinkwe shall manage," he reflected. "You sit right aft, and I'llrow."

I was too far gone for curiosity as to how this monstrouspyramid was to be rowed, or even for surmises as to its founderingby the way. I crawled to my appointed seat, and Davies extricatedthe buried sculls by a series of tugs, which shook the wholestructure, and made us roll alarmingly. How he stowed himself intorowing posture I have not the least idea, but eventually we weremoving sluggishly out into the open water, his head just visible inthe bows. We had started from what appeared to be the head of anarrow loch, and were leaving behind us the lights of a big town. Along frontage of lamp-lit quays was on our left, with here andthere the vague hull of a steamer alongside. We passed the last ofthe lights and came out into a broader stretch of water, when alight breeze was blowing and dark hills could be seen on eithershore.

"I'm lying a little way down the fiord, you see," said Davies."I hate to be too near a town, and I found a carpenter handyhere— There she is! I wonder how you'll like her!"

I roused myself. We were entering a little cove encircled bytrees, and approaching a light which flickered in the rigging of asmall vessel, whose outline gradually defined itself.

"Keep her off," said Davies, as we drew alongside.

In a moment he had jumped on deck, tied the painter, and wasround at my end.

"You hand them up," he ordered, "and I'll take them."

It was a laborious task, with the one relief that it was not farto hand them—a doubtful compensation, for other reasonsdistantly shaping themselves. When the stack was transferred to thedeck I followed it, tripping over the flabby meat parcel, which wasalready showing ghastly signs of disintegration under the dew.Hazily there floated through my mind my last embarkation on ayacht; my faultless attire, the trim gig and obsequious sailors,the accommodation ladder flashing with varnish and brass in theAugust sun; the orderly, snowy decks and basket chairs under theawning aft. What a contrast with this sordid midnight scramble,over damp meat and littered packing-cases! The bitterest touch ofall was a growing sense of inferiority and ignorance which I hadnever before been allowed to feel in my experience of yachts.

Davies awoke from another reverie over my portmanteau to say,cheerily: "I'll just show you round down below first, and thenwe'll stow things away and get to bed."

He dived down a companion ladder, and I followed cautiously. Acomplex odour of paraffin, past cookery, tobacco, and tar salutedmy nostrils.

"Mind your head," said Davies, striking a match and lighting acandle, while I groped into the cabin. "You'd better sit down; it'seasier to look round."

There might well have been sarcasm in this piece of advice, forI must have cut a ridiculous figure, peering awkwardly andsuspiciously round, with shoulders and head bent to avoid theceiling, which seemed in the half-light to be even nearer the floorthan it was.

"You see," were Davies's reassuring words, "there's plenty ofroom to sit upright" (which was strictly true; but I am notvery tall, and he is short). "Some people make a point ofhead-room, but I never mind much about it. That's the centreboardcase," he explained, as, in stretching my legs out, my knee cameinto contact with a sharp edge.

I had not seen this devilish obstruction, as it was hiddenbeneath the table, which indeed rested on it at one end. Itappeared to be a long, low triangle, running lengthways with theboat and dividing the naturally limited space into two.

"You see, she's a flat-bottomed boat, drawing very little waterwithout the plate; that's why there's so little headroom. For deepwater you lower the plate; so, in one way or another, you can gopractically anywhere."

I was not nautical enough to draw any very definite conclusionsfrom this, but what I did draw were not promising. The lattersentences were spoken from the forecastle, whither Davies had creptthrough a low sliding door, like that of a rabbit-hutch, and wasalready busy with a kettle over a stove which I made out to be abattered and disreputable twin brother of the No. 3Rippingille.

"It'll be boiling soon," he remarked, "and we'll have somegrog."

My eyes were used to the light now, and I took in the rest of mysurroundings, which may be very simply described. Two longcushion-covered seats flanked the cabin, bounded at the after endby cupboards, one of which was cut low to form a sort of miniaturesideboard, with glasses hung in a rack above it. The deck overheadwas very low at each side but rose shoulder high for a space in themiddle, where a "coach-house roof" with a skylight gave additionalcabin space. Just outside the door was a fold-up washing-stand. Oneither wall were long net-racks holding a medley of flags, charts,caps, cigar-boxes, hanks of yarn, and such like. Across the forwardbulkhead was a bookshelf crammed to overflowing with volumes of allsizes, many upside down and some coverless. Below this were apipe-rack, an aneroid, and a clock with a hearty tick. All thewoodwork was painted white, and to a less jaundiced eye than minethe interior might have had an enticing look of snugness. SomeKodak prints were nailed roughly on the after bulkhead, and justover the doorway was the photograph of a young girl.

"That's my sister," said Davies, who had emerged and saw melooking at it. "Now, let's get the stuff down." He ran up theladder, and soon my portmanteau blackened the hatchway, and a greatstraining and squeezing began. "I was afraid it was too big," camedown; "I'm sorry, but you'll have to unpack on deck—we may beable to squash it down when it's empty."

Then the wearisome tail of packages began to form a fresh stackin the cramped space at my feet, and my back ached with stoopingand moiling in unfamiliar places. Davies came down, and withunconcealed pride introduced me to the sleeping cabin (he calledthe other one "the saloon"). Another candle was lit and showed twoshort and narrow berths with blankets, but no sign of sheets;beneath these were drawers, one set of which Davies made me masterof, evidently thinking them a princely allowance of space for mywardrobe.

"You can chuck your things down the skylight on to your berth asyou unpack them," he remarked. "By the way, I doubt if there's roomfor all you've got. I suppose you couldn'tmanage——"

"No, I couldn't," I said shortly.

The absurdity of argument struck me; two men, doubled up likemonkeys, cannot argue.

"If you'll go out I shall be able to get out too," I added. Heseemed miserable at this ghost of an altercation, but I pushedpast, mounted the ladder, and in the expiring moonlight unstrappedthat accursed portmanteau and, brimming over with irritation,groped among its contents, sorting some into the skylight with thesame feeling that nothing mattered much now, and it was best to bedone with it; repacking the rest with guilty stealth ere Daviesshould discover their character, and strapping up the whole again.Then I sat down upon my white elephant and shivered, for the chillof autumn was in the air. It suddenly struck me that if it had beenraining things might have been worse still. The notion made me lookround. The little cove was still as glass; stars above and starsbelow; a few white cottages glimmering at one point on the shore;in the west the lights of Flensburg; to the east the fiordbroadening into unknown gloom. From Davies toiling below there weremuffled sounds of wrenching, pushing, and hammering, punctuatedoccasionally by a heavy splash as something shot up from thehatchway and fell into the water.

How it came about I do not know. Whether it was somethingpathetic in the look I had last seen on his face—a look whichI associated for no reason whatever with his bandaged hand; whetherit was one of those instants of clear vision in which our separateselves are seen divided, the baser from the better, and I saw mysilly egotism in contrast with a simple generous nature; whether itwas an impalpable air of mystery which pervaded the wholeenterprise and refused to be dissipated by its most mortifying andvulgarising incidents—a mystery dimly connected with mycompanion's obvious consciousness of having misled me into joininghim; whether it was only the stars and the cool air rousingatrophied instincts of youth and spirits; probably, indeed, it wasall these influences, cemented into strength by a ruthless sense ofhumour which whispered that I was in danger of making a merecommonplace fool of myself in spite of all my labouredcalculations; but whatever it was, in a flash my mood changed. Thecrown of martyrdom disappeared, the wounded vanity healed; thatprecious fund of fictitious resignation drained away, but left novoid. There was left a fashionable and dishevelled young mansitting in the dew and in the dark on a ridiculous portmanteauwhich dwarfed the yacht that was to carry it; a youth acutelysensible of ignorance in a strange and strenuous atmosphere; stillfeeling sore and victimised; but withal sanely ashamed and sanelyresolved to enjoy himself. I anticipate; for though the change wasradical its full growth was slow. But in any case it was here andnow that it took its birth.

"Grog's ready!" came from below. Bunching myself for the descentI found to my astonishment that all trace of litter hadmiraculously vanished, and a cosy neatness reigned. Glasses andlemons were on the table, and a fragrant smell of punch haddeadened previous odours. I showed little emotion at theseamenities, but enough to give intense relief to Davies, whodelightedly showed me his devices for storage, praising the"roominess" of his floating den. "There's your stove, you see," heended; "I've chucked the old one overboard." It was a weakness ofhis, I should say here, to rejoice in throwing things overboard onthe flimsiest pretexts. I afterwards suspected that the new stovehad not been "really necessary" any more than the rigging-screws,but was an excuse for gratifying this curious taste.

We smoked and chatted for a little, and then came the problem ofgoing to bed. After much bumping of knuckles and head, and manygiddy writhings, I mastered it, and lay between the rough blankets.Davies, moving swiftly and deftly, was soon in his.

"It's quite comfortable, isn't it?" he said, as he blew out thelight from where he lay, with an accuracy which must have been thefruit of long practice.

I felt prickly all over, and there was a damp patch on thepillow, which was soon explained by a heavy drop of moisturefalling on my forehead.

"I suppose the deck's not leaking?" I said, as mildly as Icould.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Davies, earnestly, tumbling out of hisbunk. "It must be the heavy dew. I did a lot of caulking yesterday,but I suppose I missed that place. I'll run up and square it withan oilskin."

"What's wrong with your hand?" I asked, sleepily, on his return,for gratitude reminded me of that bandage.

"Nothing much; I strained it the other day," was the reply; andthen the seemingly inconsequent remark: "I'm glad you brought thatprismatic compass. It's not really necessary, of course; but"(muffled by blankets) "it may come in useful."

CHAPTER III.
Davies

I dozed but fitfully, with a fretful sense of sore elbows andneck and many a draughty hiatus among the blankets. It was broaddaylight before I had reached the stage of torpor in which suchslumber merges. That was finally broken by the descent through theskylight of a torrent of water. I started up, bumped my head hardagainst the decks, and blinked leaden-eyed upwards.

"Sorry! I'm scrubbing decks. Come up and bathe. Slept well?" Iheard a voice saying from aloft.

"Fairly well," I growled, stepping out into a pool of water onthe oilcloth. Thence I stumbled up the ladder, dived overboard, andburied bad dreams, stiffness, frowsiness, and tormented nerves inthe loveliest fiord of the lovely Baltic. A short and furious swimand I was back again, searching for a means of ascent up the smoothblack side, which, low as it was, was slippery and unsympathetic.Davies, in a loose canvas shirt, with the sleeves tucked up, andflannels rolled up to the knee, hung over me with a rope's end, andchatted unconcernedly about the easiness of the job when you knowhow, adjuring me to mind the paint, and talking about anaccommodation ladder he had once had, but had thrown overboardbecause it was so horribly in the way. When I arrived, my knees andelbows were picked out in black paint, to his consternation.Nevertheless, as I plied the towel, I knew that I had left in thoselimpid depths yet another crust of discontent and self-conceit.

As I dressed into flannels and blazer, I looked round the deck,and with an unskilled and doubtful eye took in all that thedarkness had hitherto hidden. She seemed very small (in point offact she was seven tons), something over thirty feet in length andnine in beam, a size very suitable to week-ends in the Solent, forsuch as liked that sort of thing; but that she should have comefrom Dover to the Baltic suggested a world of physical endeavour ofwhich I had never dreamed. I passed to the æsthetic side. Smartnessand beauty were essential to yachts, in my mind, but with the bestresolves to be pleased I found little encouragement here. The hullseemed too low, and the mainmast too high; the cabin roof lookedclumsy, and the skylights saddened the eye with dull iron andplebeian graining. What brass there was, on the tiller-head andelsewhere, was tarnished with sickly green. The decks had none ofthat creamy purity which Cowes expects, but were rough and grey,and showed tarry exhalations round the seams and rusty stains nearthe bows. The ropes and rigging were in mourning when contrastedwith the delicate buff manilla so satisfying to the artistic eye asseen against the blue of a June sky at Southsea. Nor was the wholeeffect bettered by many signs of recent refitting. An impression ofpaint, varnish, and carpentry was in the air; a gaudy new burgeefluttered aloft; there seemed to be a new rope or two, especiallyround the diminutive mizzen-mast, which itself looked altogethernew. But all this only emphasised the general plainness, remindingone of a respectable woman of the working-classes trying to dressabove her station, and soon likely to give it up.

That the ensemble was businesslike and solid even myuntrained eye could see. Many of the deck fittings seemeddisproportionately substantial. The anchor-chain lookedcontemptuous of its charge; the binnacle with its compass was of asize and prominence almost comically impressive, and was, moreoverthe only piece of brass which was burnished and showed traces ofreverent care. Two huge coils of stout and dingy warp lay justabaft the mainmast, and summed up the weather-beaten aspect of thelittle ship. I should add here that in the distant past she hadbeen a lifeboat, and had been clumsily converted into a yacht bythe addition of a counter, deck, and the necessary spars. She wasbuilt, as all lifeboats are, diagonally, of two skins of teak, andthus had immense strength, though, in the matter of looks, all ahybrid's failings.

Hunger and "Tea's made!" from below brought me down to thecabin, where I found breakfast laid out on the table over thecentreboard case, with Davies earnestly presiding, rather flushedas to the face, and sooty as to the fingers. There was a slightshortage of plate and crockery, but I praised the bacon and coulddo so truthfully, for its crisp and steaming shavings would haveput to shame the efforts of my London cook. Indeed, I should haveenjoyed the meal heartily were it not for the lowness of the sofaand table, causing a curvature of the body which made swallowing amore lengthy process than usual, and induced a periodical yearningto get up and stretch—a relief which spelt disaster to theskull. I noticed, too, that Davies spoke with a zest, sinister tome, of the delights of white bread and fresh milk, which he seemedto consider unusual luxuries, though suitable to an inauguralbanquet in honour of a fastidious stranger. "One can't be alwaysgoing on shore," he said, when I showed a discreet interest inthese things. "I lived for ten days on a big rye loaf over in theFrisian Islands."

"And it died hard, I suppose?"

"Very hard, but" (gravely) "quite good. After that I taughtmyself to make rolls; had no baking powder at first, so used Eno'sfruit salt, but they wouldn't rise much with that. As for milk,condensed is—I hope you don't mind it?"

I changed the subject, and asked about his plans.

"Let's get under way at once," he said, "and sail down thefiord." I tried for something more specific, but he was gone, andhis voice drowned in the fo'c'sle by the clatter and swish ofwashing up. Thenceforward events moved with bewildering rapidity.Humbly desirous of being useful I joined him on deck, only to findthat he scarcely noticed me, save as a new and unexpected obstaclein his round of activity. He was everywhere at once—heavingin chain, hooking on halyards, hauling ropes; while my part becamethat of the clown who does things after they are already done, formy knowledge of a yacht was of that floating and inaccurate kindwhich is useless in practice. Soon the anchor was up (a great rustymonster it was!), the sails set, and Davies was darting swiftly toand fro between the tiller and jib-sheets, while theDulcibella bowed a lingering farewell to the shore andheaded for the open fiord. Erratic puffs from the high land behindmade her progress timorous at first, but soon the fairway wasreached and a true breeze from Flensburg and the west took her inits friendly grip. Steadily she rustled down the calm blue highwaywhose soft beauty was the introduction to a passage in my life,short, but pregnant with moulding force, through stress and strain,for me and others.

Davies was gradually resuming his natural self, with abstractedintervals, in which he lashed the helm to finger a distant rope,with such speed that the movements seemed simultaneous. Once hevanished, only to reappear in an instant with a chart, which hestudied, while steering, with a success that its reluctant foldsseemed to render impossible. Waiting respectfully for his revival Ihad full time to look about. The fiord here was about a mile broad.From the shore we had left the hills rose steeply, but with norugged grandeur; the outlines were soft; there were green spacesand rich woods on the lower slopes; a little white town was openingup in one place, and scattered farms dotted the prospect. The othershore, which I could just see, framed between the gunwale and themainsail, as I sat leaning against the hatchway, and sadly missinga deck-chair, was lower and lonelier, though prosperous andpleasing to the eye. Spacious pastures led up by slow degrees toordered clusters of wood, which hinted at the presence of somegreat manor house. Behind us, Flensburg was settling into haze.Ahead, the scene was shut in by the contours of hills, some clear,some dreamy and distant. Lastly, a single glimpse of water shiningbetween the folds of hill far away hinted at spaces of distant seaof which this was but a secluded inlet. Everywhere was thatpeculiar charm engendered by the association of quiet pastoralcountry and a homely human atmosphere with a branch of the greatocean that bathes all the shores of our globe.

There was another charm in the scene, due to the way in which Iwas viewing it—not as a pampered passenger on a "fine steamyacht", or even on "a powerful modern schooner", as the yachtagents advertise, but from the deck of a scrubby little craft ofdoubtful build and distressing plainness, which yet had smelt herpersistent way to this distant fiord through I knew not what ofdifficulty and danger, with no apparent motive in her singleoccupant, who talked as vaguely and unconcernedly about hisadventurous cruise as though it were all a protracted afternoon onSouthampton Water.

I glanced round at Davies. He had dropped the chart and wassitting, or rather half lying, on the deck with one bronzed armover the tiller, gazing fixedly ahead, with just an occasionalglance around and aloft. He still seemed absorbed in himself, andfor a moment or two I studied his face with an attention I hadnever, since I had known him, given it. I had always thought itcommonplace, as I had thought him commonplace, so far as I hadthought at all about either. It had always rather irritated me byan excess of candour and boyishness. These qualities it had kept,but the scales were falling from my eyes, and I saw others. I sawstrength to obstinacy and courage to recklessness, in the firmlines of the chin; an older and deeper look in the eyes. Those oddtransitions from bright mobility to detached earnestness, which hadpartly amused and chiefly annoyed me hitherto, seemed now to belost in a sensitive reserve, not cold or egotistic, but strangelywinning from its paradoxical frankness. Sincerity was stamped onevery lineament. A deep misgiving stirred me that, clever as Ithought myself, nicely perceptive of the right and congenial men toknow, I had made some big mistakes—how many, I wondered? Arelief, scarcely less deep because it was unconfessed, stole in onme with the suspicion that, little as I deserved it, the patientfates were offering me a golden chance of repairing at least one.And yet, I mused, the patient fates have crooked methods, besides acertain mischievous humour, for it was Davies who had asked meout—though now he scarcely seemed to need me—almosttricked me into coming out, for he might have known I was notsuited to such a life; yet trickery and Davies sounded an oddconjuncture.

Probably it was the growing discomfort of my attitude whichproduced this backsliding. My night's rest and the "ascent from thebath" had, in fact, done little to prepare me for contact withsharp edges and hard surfaces. But Davies had suddenly come tohimself, and with an "I say, are you comfortable? Have something tosit on?" jerked the helm a little to windward, felt it like a pulsefor a moment, with a rapid look to windward, and dived below,whence he returned with a couple of cushions, which he threw to me.I felt perversely resentful of these luxuries, and asked:

"Can't I be of any use?"

"Oh, don't you bother," he answered. "I expect you're tired.Aren't we having a splendid sail? That must be Ekken on the portbow," peering under the sail, "where the trees run in. I say, doyou mind looking at the chart?" He tossed it over to me. I spreadit out painfully, for it curled up like a watch-spring at the leastslackening of pressure. I was not familiar with charts, and thissudden trust reposed in me, after a good deal of neglect, made menervous.

"You see Flensburg, don't you?" he said. "That's where we are,"dabbing with a long reach at an indefinite space on the crowdedsheet. "Now which side of that buoy off the point do we pass?"

I had scarcely taken in which was land and which was water, muchless the significance of the buoy, when he resumed:

"Never mind; I'm pretty sure it's all deep water about here. Iexpect that marks the fairway for steamers.

In a minute or two we were passing the buoy in question, on thewrong side I am pretty certain, for weeds and sand came suddenlyinto view below us with uncomfortable distinctness. But all Daviessaid was:

"There's never any sea here, and the plate's not down," a darkutterance which I pondered doubtfully. "The best of these Schleswigwaters," he went on, "is that a boat of this size can go almostanywhere. There's no navigation required. Why——" Atthis moment a faint scraping was felt, rather than heard, beneathus.

"Aren't we aground?" I asked with great calmness.

"Oh, she'll blow over," he replied, wincing a little.

She "blew over", but the episode caused a little naïve vexationin Davies. I relate it as a good instance of one of his minorpeculiarities. He was utterly without that didactic pedantry whichyachting has a fatal tendency to engender in men who profess it. Hehad tossed me the chart without a thought that I was an ignoramus,to whom it would be Greek, and who would provide him with anadmirable subject to drill and lecture, just as his neglect of methroughout the morning had been merely habitual and unconsciousindependence. In the second place, master of his métier, asI knew him afterwards to be, resourceful, skilful, and alert, hewas liable to lapse into a certain amateurish vagueness, halfirritating and half amusing. I think truly that both thesepeculiarities came from the same source, a hatred of any sort ofaffectation. To the same source I traced the fact that he and hisyacht observed none of the superficial etiquette of yachts andyachtsmen, that she never, for instance, flew a national ensign,and he never wore a "yachting suit".

We rounded a low green point which I had scarcely noticedbefore.

"We must jibe," said Davies: "just take the helm, will you?"and, without waiting for my co-operation, he began hauling in themainsheet with great vigour. I had rude notions of steering, butjibing is a delicate operation. No yachtsman will be surprised tohear that the boom saw its opportunity and swung over with a mightycrash, with the mainsheet entangled round me and the tiller.

"Jibed all standing," was his sorrowful comment. "You're notused to her yet. She's very quick on the helm."

"Where am I to steer for?" I asked, wildly.

"Oh, don't trouble, I'll take her now," he replied.

I felt it was time to make my position clear. "I'm an utterduffer at sailing," I began. "You'll have a lot to teach me, or oneof these days I shall be wrecking you. You see, there's always beena crew——"

"Crew!"—with sovereign contempt—"why, the whole funof the thing is to do everything oneself."

"Well, I've felt in the way the whole morning."

"I'm awfully sorry!" His dismay and repentance were comical."Why, it's just the other way; you may be all the use in theworld." He became absent.

We were following the inward trend of a small bay towards acleft in the low shore.

"That's Ekken Sound," said Davies; "let's look into it," and aminute or two later we were drifting through a dainty littlestrait, with a peep of open water at the end of it. Cottagesbordered either side, some overhanging the very water, someconnecting with it by a rickety wooden staircase or a miniaturelanding-stage. Creepers and roses rioted over the walls and tinyporches. For a space on one side, a rude quay, with small smacksfloating off it, spoke of some minute commercial interests; a verysmall tea-garden, with neglected-looking bowers and leaf-strewntables, hinted at some equally minute tripping interest. Apervading hue of mingled bronze and rose came partly from theweather-mellowed woodwork of the cottages and stages, and partlyfrom the creepers and the trees behind, where autumn's subtlefingers were already at work. Down this exquisite sea-lane weglided till it ended in a broad mere, where our sails, which hadbeen shivering and complaining, filled into contented silence.

"Ready about!" said Davies, callously. "We must get out of thisagain." And round we swung.

"Why not anchor and stop here?" I protested; for a view oftantalising loveliness was unfolding itself.

"Oh, we've seen all there is to be seen, and we must take thisbreeze while we've got it." It was always torture to Davies to feela good breeze running to waste while he was inactive at anchor oron shore. The "shore" to him was an inferior element, merelyserving as a useful annexe to the water—a source of necessarysupplies.

"Let's have lunch," he pursued, as we resumed our way down thefiord. A vision of iced drinks, tempting salads, white napery, andan attentive steward mocked me with past recollections.

"You'll find a tongue," said the voice of doom, "in thestarboard sofa-locker; beer under the floor in the bilge. I'll seeher round that buoy, if you wouldn't mind beginning." I obeyed witha bad grace, but the close air and cramped posture must havebenumbed my faculties, for I opened the port-side locker, reacheddown, and grasped a sticky body, which turned out to be a pot ofvarnish. Recoiling wretchedly, I tried the opposite one, combatingthe embarrassing heel of the boat and the obstructive edges of thecentreboard case. A medley of damp tins of varied sizes showed inthe gloom, exuding a mouldy odour. Faded legends on dissolvingpaper, like the remnants of old posters on a disused hoarding,spoke of soups, curries, beefs, potted meats, and other hiddendelicacies. I picked out a tongue, re-imprisoned the odour, andexplored for beer. It was true, I supposed, that bilge didn't hurtit, as I tugged at the plank on my hands and knees, but I shouldhave myself preferred a more accessible and less humid wine-cellarthan the cavities among slimy ballast from which I dug the bottles.I regarded my hard-won and ill-favoured pledges of a meal withgiddiness and discouragement.

"How are you getting on?" shouted Davies; "the tin-opener'shanging up on the bulkhead; the plates and knives are in thecupboard."

I doggedly pursued my functions. The plates and knives met mehalf-way, for, being on the weather side, and thus having adownward slant, its contents, when I slipped the latch, slidaffectionately into my bosom, and overflowed with a clatter andjingle on to the floor.

"That often happens," I heard from above. "Never mind! There areno breakables. I'm coming down to help." And down he came, leavingthe Dulcibella to her own devices.

"I think I'll go on deck," I said. "Why in the world couldn'tyou lunch comfortably at Ekken and save this infernal pandemoniumof a picnic? Where's the yacht going to meanwhile? And how are weto lunch on that slanting table? I'm covered with varnish and mud,and ankle-deep in crockery. There goes the beer!"

"You shouldn't have stood it on the table with this list on,"said Davies, with intense composure, "but it won't do any harm;it'll drain into the bilge" (ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Ithought). "You go on deck now, and I'll finish getting ready." Iregretted my explosion, though wrung from me under greatprovocation.

"Keep her straight on as she's going," said Davies, as Iclambered up out of the chaos, brushing the dust off my trousersand varnishing the ladder with my hands. I unlashed the helm andkept her as she was going.

We had rounded a sharp bend in the fiord, and were sailing up abroad and straight reach which every moment disclosed new beauties,sights fair enough to be balm to the angriest spirit. A red-roofedhamlet was on our left, on the right an ivied ruin, close to thewater, where some contemplative cattle stood knee-deep. The viewahead was a white strand which fringed both shores, and to it fellwooded slopes, interrupted here and there by low sandstone cliffsof warm red colouring, and now and again by a dingle with cracks ofgreensward.

I forgot petty squalors and enjoyed things—the coy trembleof the tiller and the backwash of air from the dingy mainsail, and,with a somewhat chastened rapture, the lunch which Davies broughtup to me and solicitously watched me eat.

Later, as the wind sank to lazy airs, he became busy with alarger topsail and jib; but I was content to doze away theafternoon, drenching brain and body in the sweet and novel foreignatmosphere, and dreamily watching the fringe of glen cliff and coolwhite sand as they passed ever more slowly by.

CHAPTER IV.
Retrospect

"Wake up!" I rubbed my eyes and wondered where I was; stretchedmyself painfully, too, for even the cushions had not given me atrue bed of roses. It was dusk, and the yacht was stationary inglassy water, coloured by the last after-glow. A roofing of thinupper-cloud had spread over most of the sky, and a subtle smell ofrain was in the air. We seemed to be in the middle of the fiord,whose shores looked distant and steep in the gathering darkness.Close ahead they faded away suddenly, and the sight lost itself ina grey void. The stillness was absolute.

"We can't get to Sonderburg to-night," said Davies.

"What's to be done then?" I asked, collecting my senses.

"Oh! we'll anchor anywhere here, we're just at the mouth of thefiord; I'll tow her inshore if you'll steer in that direction." Hepointed vaguely at a blur of trees and cliff. Then he jumped intothe dinghy, cast off the painter, and, after snatching at the slackof a rope, began towing the reluctant yacht by short jerks of thesculls. The menacing aspect of that grey void, combined with anatural preference for getting to some definite place at night,combined to depress my spirits afresh. In my sleep I had dreamt ofMorven Lodge, of heather tea-parties after glorious slaughters ofgrouse, of salmon leaping in amber pools—andnow——

"Just take a cast of the lead, will you?" came Davies's voiceabove the splash of the sculls.

"Where is it?" I shouted back.

"Never mind—we're close enough now; let—— Canyou manage to let go the anchor?"

I hurried forward and picked impotently at the bonds of thesleeping monster. But Davies was aboard again, and stirred him witha deft touch or two, till he crashed into the water with a grindingof chain.

"We shall do well here," said he.

"Isn't this rather an open anchorage?" I suggested.

"It's only open from that quarter," he replied. "If it comes onto blow from there we shall have to clear out; but I think it'sonly rain. Let's stow the sails."

Another whirlwind of activity, in which I joined as effectivelyas I could, oppressed by the prospect of having to "clearout"—who knows whither?—at midnight. But Davies'ssang froid was infectious, I suppose, and the little denbelow, bright-lit and soon fragrant with cookery, pleadedinsistently for affection. Yachting in this singular style washungry work, I found. Steak tastes none the worse for having beenwrapped in newspaper, and the slight traces of the day's newsdisappear with frying in onions and potato-chips. Davies was indeedon his mettle for this, his first dinner to his guest; for heproduced with stealthy pride, not from the dishonoured grave of thebeer, but from some more hallowed recess, a bottle of Germanchampagne, from which we drank success to theDulcibella.

"I wish you would tell me all about your cruise from England," Iasked. "You must have had some exciting adventures. Here are thecharts; let's go over them."

"We must wash up first," he replied, and I was tactfullyintroduced to one of his very few "standing orders", that tobaccoshould not burn, nor post-prandial chat begin, until thatdistasteful process had ended. "It would never get done otherwise,"he sagely opined. But when we were finally settled with cigars, avariety of which, culled from many ports—German, Dutch, andBelgian—Davies kept in a battered old box in the net-rack,the promised talk hung fire.

"I'm no good at description," he complained; "and there's reallyvery little to tell. We left Dover—Morrison and I—onthe 6th of August; made a good passage to Ostend."

"You had some fun there, I suppose?" I put in, thinkingof—well, of Ostend in August.

"Fun! A filthy hole I call it; we had to stop a couple of days,as we fouled a buoy coming in and carried away the bobstay; we layin a dirty little tidal dock, and there was nothing to do onshore."

"Well, what next?"

"We had a splendid sail to the East Scheldt, but then, likefools, decided to go through Holland by canal and river. It wasgood fun enough navigating the estuary—the tides and banksthere are appalling—but farther inland it was a wretchedbusiness, nothing but paying lock-dues, bumping against schuyts,and towing down stinking canals. Never a peaceful night likethis—always moored by some quay or tow-path, with peoplepassing and boys. Heavens! shall I ever forget those boys! Aperfect murrain of them infests Holland; they seem to have nothingin the world to do but throw stones and mud at foreign yachts."

"They want a Herod, with some statesmanlike views oninfanticide."

"By Jove! yes; but the fact is that you want a crew for thatpottering inland work; they can smack the boys and keep an eye onthe sculls. A boat like this should stick to the sea, orout-of-the-way places on the coast. Well, after Amsterdam."

"You've skipped a good deal, haven't you?" I interrupted.

"Oh! have I? Well, let me see, we went by Dordrecht toRotterdam; nothing to see there, and swarms of tugs buzzing aboutand shaving one's bows every second. On by the Vecht river toAmsterdam, and thence—Lord, what a relief it was!—outinto the North Sea again. The weather had been still and steamy;but it broke up finely now, and we had a rattling three-reef sailto the Zuyder Zee."

He reached up to the bookshelf for what looked like an ancientledger, and turned over the leaves.

"Is that your log?" I asked. "I should like to have a look atit."

"Oh! you'd find it dull reading—if you could read it atall; it's just short notes about winds and bearings, and so on." Hewas turning some leaves over rapidly. "Now, why don't you keep alog of what we do? I can't describe things, and you can."

"I've half a mind to try," I said.

"We want another chart now," and he pulled down a second yetmore stained and frayed than the first. "We had a splendid timethen exploring the Zuyder Zee, its northern part at least, andround those islands which bound it on the north. Those are theFrisian Islands, and they stretch for 120 miles or so eastward. Yousee, the first two of them, Texel and Vlieland, shut in the ZuyderZee, and the rest border the Dutch and German coasts." [See Map A]

"What's all this?" I said, running my finger over some dottedpatches which covered much of the chart. The latter was becomingunintelligible; clean-cut coasts and neat regiments of littlefigures had given place to a confusion of winding and intersectinglines and bald spaces.

"All sand," said Davies, enthusiastically. "You can'tthink what a splendid sailing-ground it is. You can explore fordays without seeing a soul. These are the channels, you see;they're very badly charted. This chart was almost useless, but itmade it all the more fun. No towns or harbours, just a village ortwo on the islands, if you wanted stores."

"They look rather desolate," I said.

"Desolate's no word for it; they're really only giganticsandbanks themselves."

"Wasn't all this rather dangerous?" I asked.

"Not a bit; you see, that's where our shallow draught and flatbottom came in—we could go anywhere, and it didn't matterrunning aground—she's perfect for that sort of work; and shedoesn't really look bad either, does she?" he asked, ratherwistfully. I suppose I hesitated, for he said, abruptly:

"Anyway, I don't go in for looks."

He had leaned back, and I detected traces of incipientabsentmindedness. His cigar, which he had lately been lighting andrelighting feverishly—a habit of his whenexcited—seemed now to have expired for good.

"About running aground," I persisted; "surely that's apt to bedangerous?"

He sat up and felt round for a match.

"Not the least, if you know where you can run risks and whereyou can't; anyway, you can't possibly help it. That chart may looksimple to you"—("simple!" I thought)—"but at half floodall those banks are covered; the islands and coasts are scarcelyvisible, they are so low, and everything looks the same." Thisgraphic description of a "splendid cruising-ground" took away mybreath. "Of course there is risk sometimes—choosing ananchorage requires care. You can generally get a nice berth underthe lee of a bank, but the tides run strong in the channels, and ifthere's a gale blowing——"

"Didn't you ever take a pilot?" I interrupted.

"Pilot? Why, the whole point of the thing"—he stoppedshort—"I did take one once, later on," he resumed, with anodd smile, which faded at once.

"Well?" I urged, for I saw a reverie was coming.

"Oh! he ran me ashore, of course. Served me right. I wonder whatthe weather's doing"; he rose, glanced at the aneroid, the clock,and the half-closed skylight with a curious circular movement, andwent a step or two up the companion-ladder, where he remained forseveral minutes with head and shoulders in the open air.

There was no sound of wind outside, but the Dulcibellahad begun to move in her sleep, as it were, rolling drowsily tosome faint send of the sea, with an occasional short jump, like thestart of an uneasy dreamer.

"What does it look like?" I called from my sofa. I had to repeatthe question.

"Rain coming," said Davies, returning, "and possibly wind; butwe're safe enough here. It's coming from the sou'-west; shall weturn in?"

"We haven't finished your cruise yet," I said. "Light a pipe andtell me the rest."

"All right," he agreed, with more readiness than I expected.

"After Terschelling—here it is, the third island from thewest—I pottered along eastward." [See MapA]

"I?"

"Oh! I forgot. Morrison had to leave me there. I missed himbadly, but I hoped at that time to get —— to join me. Icould manage all right single-handed, but for that sort of work twoare much better than one. The plate's beastly heavy; in fact, I hadto give up using it for fear of a smash."

"After Terschelling?" I jogged his memory.

"Well, I followed the Dutch islands, Ameland, Schiermonnikoog,Rottum (outlandish names, aren't they?), sometimes outside them,sometimes inside. It was a bit lonely, but grand sport and veryinteresting. The charts were shocking, but I worried out most ofthe channels."

"I suppose those waters are only used by small local craft?" Iput in; "that would account for inaccuracies." Did Davies thinkthat Admiralties had time to waste on smoothing the road for suchquixotic little craft as his, in all its inquisitive ramblings? Buthe fired up.

"That's all very well," he said, "but think what folly it is.However, that's a long story, and will bore you. To cut mattersshort, for we ought to be turning in, I got to Borkum—that'sthe first of the German islands." He pointed at a round barelozenge lying in the midst of a welter of sandbanks."Rottum—this queer little one—it has only one house onit—is the most easterly Dutch island, and the mainland ofHolland ends here, opposite it, at the EmsRiver"—indicating a dismal cavity in the coast, sown withnames suggestive of mud, and wrecks, and dreariness.

"What date was this?" I asked.

"About the ninth of this month."

"Why, that's only a fortnight before you wired to me! You werepretty quick getting to Flensburg. Wait a bit, we want anotherchart. Is this the next?"

"Yes; but we scarcely need it. I only went a little way fartheron—to Norderney, in fact, the third German island—thenI decided to go straight for the Baltic. I had always had an ideaof getting there, as Knight did in the Falcon. So I made apassage of it to the Eider River, there on the WestSchleswig coast, took the river and canal through to Kiel on theBaltic, and from there made another passage up north to Flensburg.I was a week there, and then you came, and here we are. And nowlet's turn in. We'll have a fine sail to-morrow!" He ended withrather forced vivacity, and briskly rolled up the chart. Thereluctance he had shown from the first to talk about his cruise hadbeen for a brief space forgotten in his enthusiasm about a portionof it, but had returned markedly in this bald conclusion. I feltsure that there was more in it than mere disinclination to spinnautical yarns in the "hardy Corinthian" style, which can be sooffensive in amateur yachtsmen; and I thought I guessed theexplanation. His voyage single-handed to the Baltic from theFrisian Islands had been a foolhardy enterprise, with perilousincidents, which, rather than make light of, he would not refer toat all. Probably he was ashamed of his recklessness and wished toignore it with me, an inexperienced acquaintance not yet enamouredof the Dulcibella's way of life, whom both courtesy andinterest demanded that he should inspire with confidence. I likedhim all the better as I came to this conclusion, but I was temptedto persist a little.

"I slept the whole afternoon," I said; "and, to tell the truth,I rather dread the idea of going to bed, it's so tiring. Look here,you've rushed over that last part like an express train. Thatpassage to the Schleswig coast—the Eider River, did yousay?—was a longish one, wasn't it?"

"Well, you see what it was; about seventy miles, I suppose,direct." He spoke low, bending down to sweep up some cigar ashes onthe floor.

"Direct?" I insinuated. "Then you put in somewhere?"

"I stopped once, anchored for the night; oh, that's nothing of asail with a fair wind. By Jove! I've forgotten to caulk that seamover your bunk, and it's going to rain. I must do it now. You turnin."

He disappeared. My curiosity, never very consuming, was banishedby concern as to the open seam; for the prospect of a big drop,remorseless and regular as Fate, falling on my forehead throughoutthe night, as in the torture-chamber of the Inquisition, wasalarming enough to recall me wholly to the immediate future. So Iwent to bed, finding on the whole that I had made progress in theexercise, though still far from being the trained contortionistthat the occasion called for. Hammering ceased, and Daviesreappeared just as I was stretched on the rack—tucked up inmy bunk, I mean.

"I say," he said, when he was settled in his, and darknessreigned, "do you think you'll like this sort of thing?"

"If there are many places about here as beautiful as this," Ireplied, "I think I shall. But I should like to land now andthen and have a walk. Of course, a great deal depends on theweather, doesn't it? I hope this rain" (drops had begun to patteroverhead) "doesn't mean that the summer's over for good."

"Oh, you can sail just the same," said Davies, "unless it's verybad. There's plenty of sheltered water. There's bound to be achange soon. But then there are the ducks. The colder and stormierit is, the better for them."

I had forgotten the ducks and the cold, and, suddenly presentedas a shooting-box in inclement weather, the Dulcibella lostground in my estimation, which she had latterly gained.

"I'm fond of shooting," I said, "but I'm afraid I'm only afair-weather yachtsman, and I should much prefer sun andscenery."

"Scenery," he repeated, reflectively. "I say, you must havethought it a queer taste of mine to cruise about on that outlandishFrisian coast. How would you like that sort of thing?"

"I should loathe it," I answered, promptly, with a clearconscience. "Weren't you delighted yourself to get to the Baltic?It must be a wonderful contrast to what you described. Did you eversee another yacht there?"

"Only one," he answered. "Good night!"

"Good night!"

CHAPTER V.
Wanted, a North Wind

Nothing disturbed my rest that night, so adaptable is youth andso masterful is nature. At times I was remotely aware of athreshing of rain and a humming of wind, with a nervous kicking ofthe little hull, and at one moment I dreamt I saw an apparition bycandle-light of Davies, clad in pyjamas and huge top-boots,grasping a misty lantern of gigantic proportions. But theapparition mounted the ladder and disappeared, and I passed toother dreams.

A blast in my ear, like the voice of fifty trombones, galvanisedme into full consciousness. The musician, smiling and tousled, wasat my bedside, raising a foghorn to his lips with deadly intention."It's a way we have in the Dulcibella," he said, as Istarted up on one elbow. "I didn't startle you much, did I?" headded.

"Well, I like the mattinata better than the cold douche,"I answered, thinking of yesterday.

"Fine day and magnificent breeze!" he answered. My sensationsthis morning were vastly livelier than those of yesterday at thesame hour. My limbs were supple again and my head clear. Not eventhe searching wind could mar the ecstasy of that plunge down tosmooth, seductive sand, where I buried greedy fingers and lookedthrough a medium blue, with that translucent blue, fairy-faint andangel-pure, that you see in perfection only in the heart of ice. Upagain to sun, wind, and the forest whispers from the shore; downjust once more to see the uncouth anchor stabbing the sand's softbosom with one rusty fang, deaf and inert to theDulcibella's puny efforts to drag him from his prey. Back,holding by the cable as a rusty clue from heaven to earth, up tothat bourgeoise little maiden's bows; back to breakfast,with an appetite not to be blunted by condensed milk and somewhatpassé bread. An hour later we had dressed theDulcibella for the road, and were foaming into the grey voidof yesterday, now a noble expanse of wind-whipped blue, halfsurrounded by distant hills, their every outline vivid in therain-washed air.

I cannot pretend that I really enjoyed this first sail into theopen, though I was keenly anxious to do so. I felt the thrill ofthose forward leaps, heard that persuasive song the foam singsunder the lee-bow, saw the flashing harmonies of sea and sky; butsensuous perception was deadened by nervousness. The yacht lookedsmaller than ever outside the quiet fiord. The song of the foamseemed very near, the wave crests aft very high. The novice insailing clings desperately to the thoughts ofsailors—effective, prudent persons, with a typical jargon anda typical dress, versed in local currents and winds. I could nothelp missing this professional element. Davies, as he sat graspinghis beloved tiller, looked strikingly efficient in his way, andsupremely at home in his surroundings; but he looked the amateurthrough and through, as with one hand, and (it seemed) one eye, hewrestled with a spray-splashed chart half unrolled on the deckbeside him. All his casual ways returned to me—his casualtalk and that last adventurous voyage to the Baltic, and thesuspicions his reticence had aroused.

"Do you see a monument anywhere?" he said, all at once; and,before I could answer; "We must take another reef." He let go ofthe tiller and relit his pipe, while the yacht rounded sharply to,and in a twinkling was tossing head to sea with loud claps of hercanvas and passionate jerks of her boom, as the wind leapt on itsquarry, now turning to bay, with redoubled force. The sting ofspray in my eyes and the Babel of noise dazed me; but Davies, witha pull on the fore-sheet, soothed the tormented little ship, andleft her coolly sparring with the waves while he shortened sail andpuffed his pipe. An hour later the narrow vista of Als Sound wasvisible, with quiet old Sonderburg sunning itself on the islandshore, and the Dybbol heights towering above—the Dybbol ofbloody memory; scene of the last desperate stand of the Danes in'64, ere the Prussians wrested the two fair provinces fromthem.

"It's early to anchor, and I hate towns," said Davies, as onesection of a lumbering pontoon bridge opened to give us passage.But I was firm on the need for a walk, and got my way on conditionthat I bought stores as well, and returned in time to admit offurther advance to a "quiet anchorage". Never did I step on thesolid earth with stranger feelings, partly due to relief fromconfinement, partly to that sense of independence in travelling,which, for those who go down to the sea in small ships, can makethe foulest coal-port in Northumbria seem attractive. And here Ihad fascinating Sonderburg, with its broad-eaved houses of carvedwoodwork, each fresh with cleansing, yet reverend with age; itsfair-haired Viking-like men, and rosy, plain-faced women, withtheir bullet foreheads and large mouths; Sonderburg still Danish tothe core under its Teuton veneer. Crossing the bridge I climbed theDybbol—dotted with memorials of that heroic defence—andthence could see the wee form and gossamer rigging of theDulcibella on the silver ribbon of the Sound, and wasreminded by the sight that there were stores to be bought. So Ihurried down again to the old quarter and bargained over eggs andbread with a dear old lady, pink as a débutante, made apatriotic pretence of not understanding German, and called in herstrapping son, whose few words of English, being chiefly nauticalslang picked up on a British trawler, were peculiarly useless forthe purpose. Davies had tea ready when I came aboard again, and,drinking it on deck, we proceeded up the sheltered Sound, which, inspite of its imposing name, was no bigger than an inland river,only the hosts of rainbow jelly-fish reminding us that we werethreading a highway of ocean. There is no rise and fall of tide inthese regions to disfigure the shore with mud. Here was a shelvinggravel bank; there a bed of whispering rushes; there again youngbirch trees growing to the very brink, each wearing a stocking ofbright moss and setting its foot firmly in among golden leaves andscarlet fungus.

Davies was preoccupied, but he lighted up when I talked of theDanish war. "Germany's a thundering great nation," he said; "Iwonder if we shall ever fight her." A little incident that happenedafter we anchored deepened the impression left by thisconversation. We crept at dusk into a shaded back-water, where ourkeel almost touched the gravel bed. Opposite us on the Alsen shorethere showed, clean-cut against the sky, the spire of a littlemonument rising from a leafy hollow.

"I wonder what that is," I said. It was scarcely a minute's rowin the dinghy, and when the anchor was down we sculled over to it.A bank of loam led to gorse and bramble. Pushing aside somebranches we came to a slender Gothic memorial in grey stone,inscribed with bas-reliefs of battle scenes, showing Prussiansforcing a landing in boats and Danes resisting with savagetenacity. In the failing light we spelt out an inscription: "Denbei dem Meeres Uebergange und der Eroberung von Alsen am 29. Juni1864 heldenmüthig gefallenen zum ehrenden Gedächtniss." "To thehonoured memory of those who died heroically at the invasion andstorming of Alsen." I knew the German passion for commemoration; Ihad seen similar memorials on Alsatian battlefields, and several onthe Dybbol only that afternoon; but there was something in thescene, the hour, and the circ*mstances, which made this one seemsingularly touching. As for Davies, I scarcely recognised him; hiseyes flashed and filled with tears as he glanced from theinscription to the path we had followed and the water beyond. "Itwas a landing in boats, I suppose," he said, half to himself. "Iwonder they managed it. What does heldenmüthigmean?"—"Heroically."—"Heldenmüthig gefallenen," herepeated, under his breath, lingering on each syllable. He was likea schoolboy reading of Waterloo.

Our conversation at dinner turned naturally on war, and in navalwarfare I found I had come upon Davies's literary hobby. I had nothitherto paid attention to the medley on our bookshelf, but I nowsaw that, besides a Nautical Almanack and some dilapidatedSailing Directions, there were several books on the cruisesof small yachts, and also some big volumes crushed in anyhow orlying on the top. Squinting painfully at them I saw Mahan's Lifeof Nelson, Brassey's Naval Annual, and others.

"It's a tremendously interesting subject," said Davies, pullingdown (in two pieces) a volume of Mahan's Influence of SeaPower.

Dinner flagged (and froze) while he illustrated a point byreference to the much-thumbed pages. He was very keen, and not veryarticulate. I knew just enough to be an intelligent listener, and,though hungry, was delighted to hear him talk.

"I'm not boring you, am I?" he said, suddenly.

"I should think not," I protested. "But you might just have alook at the chops."

They had indeed been crying aloud for notice for some minutes,and drew candid attention to their neglect when they appeared. Thediversion they caused put Davies out of vein. I tried to revive thesubject, but he was reserved and diffident.

The untidy bookshelf reminded me of the logbook, and when Davieshad retired with the crockery to the forecastle, I pulled theledger down and turned over the leaves. It was a mass of shortentries, with cryptic abbreviations, winds, tides, weather, andcourses appearing to predominate. The voyage from Dover to Ostendwas dismissed in two lines: "Under way 7 p.m., wind W.S.W.moderate; West Hinder 5 a.m., outside all banks; Ostend 11 a.m."The Scheldt had a couple of pages very technical andstaccato in style. Inland Holland was given a contemptuoussummary, with some half-hearted allusions to windmills, and so on,and a caustic word or two about boys, paint, and canal smells.

At Amsterdam technicalities began again, and a brisker tonepervaded the entries, which became progressively fuller as thewriter cruised on the Frisian coast. He was clearly in betterspirits, for here and there were quaint and laboured efforts todescribe nature out of material which, as far as I could judge, wasrepellent enough to discourage the most brilliant and observant ofwriters; with an occasional note of a visit on shore, generallyreached by a walk of half a mile over sand, and of talks with shoppeople and fishermen. But such lighter relief was rare. The bulkdealt with channels and shoals with weird and depressing names,with the centre-plate, the sails, and the wind, buoys and "booms",tides and "berths" for the night. "Kedging off" appeared to be afrequent diversion; "running aground" was of almost dailyoccurrence.

It was not easy reading, and I turned the leaves rapidly. I wascurious, too, to see the latter part. I came to a point where therain of little sentences, pattering out like small shot, ceasedabruptly. It was at the end of September 9. That day, with its"kedging" and "boom-dodging", was filled in with the usual detail.The log then leapt over three days, and went on: "Sept. 13.Wind W.N.W. fresh. Decided to go to Baltic. Sailed 4 a.m. Quickpassage E. 1/2 S. to mouth of Weser. Anchored for night underHohenhörn Sand. Sept. 14, nil. Sept. 15, underway at 4 a.m. Wind East moderate. Course W. by S.; four miles; N.E.by N. fifteen miles. Norderpiep 9.30. Eider River 11.30." Thisrecital of naked facts was quite characteristic when "passages"were concerned, and any curiosity I had felt about his reticence onthe previous night would have been rather allayed than stimulatedhad I not noticed that a page had been torn out of the book just atthis point. The frayed edge left had been pruned and picked intovery small limits; but dissimulation was not Davies's strong point,and a child could have seen that a leaf was missing, and that theentries, starting from the evening of September 9 (where a pageended), had been written together at one sitting. I was on thepoint of calling to Davies, and chaffing him with having committeda grave offence against maritime law in having "cooked" his log;but I checked myself, I scarcely know why, probably because Iguessed the joke would touch a sensitive place and fail. Delicacyshrank from seeing him compelled either to amplify a deception orblunder out a confession—he was too easy a prey; and, afterall, the matter was of small moment. I returned the book to theshelf, the only definite result of its perusal being to recall mypromise to keep a diary myself, and I then and there dedicated anotebook to the purpose.

We were just lighting our cigars when we heard voices and thesplash of oars, followed by a bump against the hull which madeDavies wince, as violations of his paint always did. "Guten Abend;wo fahren Sie hin?" greeted us as we climbed on deck. It turned outto be some jovial fishermen returning to their smack from a visitto Sonderburg. A short dialogue proved to them that we were madEnglishmen in bitter need of charity.

"Come to Satrup," they said; "all the smacks are there, roundthe point. There is good punch in the inn."

Nothing loth, we followed in the dinghy, skirted a bend of theSound, and opened up the lights of a village, with some smacks atanchor in front of it. We were escorted to the inn, and introducedto a formidable beverage, called coffee-punch, and a smoke-wreathedcircle of smacksmen, who talked German out of courtesy, but wereDanish in all else. Davies was at once at home with them, to adegree, indeed, that I envied. His German was of the crudest kind,bizarre in vocabulary and comical in accent; but thefreemasonry of the sea, or some charm of his own, gave intuition toboth him and his hearers. I cut a poor figure in this nauticalgathering, though Davies, who persistently referred to me as"meiner Freund", tried hard to represent me as a kindred spirit andto include me in the general talk. I was detected at once as anuninteresting hybrid. Davies, who sometimes appealed to me for aword, was deep in talk over anchorages and ducks, especially, as Iwell remember now, about the chance of sport in a certain SchleiFiord. I fell into utter neglect, till rescued by a taciturnperson in spectacles and a very high cap, who appeared to be theonly landsman present. After silently puffing smoke in my directionfor some time, he asked me if I was married, and if not, when Iproposed to be. After this inquisition he abandoned me.

It was eleven before we left this hospitable inn, escorted bythe whole party to the dinghy. Our friends of the smack insisted onour sharing their boat out of pure good-fellowship—for therewas not nearly room for us—and would not let us go till abucket of fresh-caught fish had been emptied into her bottom. Aftermuch shaking of scaly hands, we sculled back to theDulcibella, where she slept in a bed of tremulous stars.

Davies sniffed the wind and scanned the tree-tops, where lightgusts were toying with the leaves.

"Sou'-west still," he said, "and more rain coming. But it'sbound to shift into the north."

"Will that be a good wind for us?"

"It depends where we go," he said, slowly. "I was asking thosefellows about duck-shooting. They seemed to think the best placewould be Schlei Fiord. That's about fifteen miles south ofSonderburg, on the way to Kiel. They said there was a pilot chapliving at the mouth who would tell us all about it. They weren'tvery encouraging though. We should want a north wind for that."

"I don't care where we go," I said, to my own surprise.

"Don't you really?" he rejoined, with sudden warmth. Then, witha slight change of voice. "You mean it's all very jolly abouthere?"

Of course I meant that. Before we went below we both looked fora moment at the little grey memorial; its slender fretted archoutlined in tender lights and darks above the hollow on the Alsenshore. The night was that of September 27, the third I had spent onthe Dulcibella.

CHAPTER VI.
Schlei Fiord

I make no apology for having described these early days in somedetail. It is no wonder that their trivialities are as vividlybefore me as the colours of earth and sea in this enchanting cornerof the world. For every trifle, sordid or picturesque, wasrelevant; every scrap of talk a link; every passing mood criticalfor good or ill. So slight indeed were the determining causes thatchanged my autumn holiday into an undertaking the most momentous Ihave ever approached.

Two days more preceded the change. On the first, thesouthwesterly wind still holding, we sallied forth intoAugustenburg Fiord, "to practise smartness in a heavy thresh," asDavies put it. It was the day of dedication for those disgustingoilskins, immured in whose stiff and odorous angles, I feltdistressfully cumbersome; a day of proof indeed for me, for heavysqualls swept incessantly over the loch, and Davies, at my ownrequest, gave me no rest. Backwards and forwards we tacked,blustering into coves and out again, reefing and unreefing, nowstung with rain, now warmed with sun, but never with time tobreathe or think.

I wrestled with intractable ropes, slaves if they could besubdued, tyrants if they got the upper hand; creeping, craning,straining, I made the painful round of the deck, while Davies,hatless and tranquil, directed my blundering movements.

"Now take the helm and try steering in a hard breeze towindward. It's the finest sport on earth."

So I grappled with the niceties of that delicate craft; smartingeyes, chafed hands, and dazed brain all pressed into the service,whilst Davies, taming the ropes the while, shouted into my ear thesubtle mysteries of the art; that fidgeting ripple in the luff ofthe mainsail, and the distant rattle from the hungryjib—signs that they are starved of wind and must be givenmore; the heavy list and wallow of the hull, the feel of the windon your cheek instead of your nose, the broader angle of the burgeeat the masthead—signs that they have too much, and that sheis sagging recreantly to leeward instead of fighting to windward.He taught me the tactics for meeting squalls, and the way to pressyour advantage when they are defeated—the iron hand in thevelvet glove that the wilful tiller needs if you are to gain yourends with it; the exact set of the sheets necessary to get theeasiest and swiftest play of the hull—all these things andmany more I struggled to apprehend, careless for the moment as towhether they were worth knowing, but doggedly set on knowing them.Needless to say, I had no eyes for beauty. The wooded inlets wedived into gave a brief respite from wind and spindrift, but calledinto use the lead and the centreboard tackle—two new andcumbrous complexities. Davies's passion for intricate navigationhad to be sated even in these secure and tideless waters.

"Let's get in as near as we can—you stand by the lead,"was his formula; so I made false casts, tripped up in the slack,sent rivers of water up my sleeves, and committed all the othergaucheries that beginners in the art commit, while the sandshowed whiter beneath the keel, till Davies regretfully drew offand shouted: "Ready about, centre-plate down," and I dashed down tothe trappings of that diabolical contrivance, the only part of theDulcibella's equipment that I hated fiercely to the last. Ithad an odious habit when lowered of spouting jets of water throughits chain-lead on to the cabin floor. One of my duties was to gagit with cotton-waste, but even then its choking gurgle was a mostuncomfortable sound in your dining-room. In a minute the creekwould be behind us and we would be thumping our stem into the shorthollow waves of the fiord, and lurching through spray and rain forsome point on the opposite shore. Of our destination and objects,if we had any, I knew nothing. At the northern end of the fiord,just before we turned, Davies had turned dreamy in the mostexasperating way, for I was steering at the time and in mortal needof sympathetic guidance, if I was to avoid a sudden jibe. As thoughcontinuing aloud some internal debate, he held a onesided argumentto the effect that it was no use going farther north. Ducks,weather, and charts figured in it, but I did not follow the prosand cons. I only know that we suddenly turned and began to "battle"south again. At sunset we were back once more in the same quietpool among the trees and fields of Als Sound, a wondrous peacesucceeding the turmoil. Bruised and sodden, I was extricatingmyself from my oily prison, and later was tasting (though notnearly yet in its perfection) the unique exultation that followssuch a day, when, glowing all over, deliciously tired andpleasantly sore, you eat what seems ambrosia, be it only tinnedbeef; and drink nectar, be it only distilled from terrestrial hopsor coffee berries, and inhale as culminating luxury balmy fumeswhich even the happy Homeric gods knew naught of.

On the following morning, the 30th, a joyous shout of "Nor'-westwind" sent me shivering on deck, in the small hours, to handlerain-stiff canvas and cutting chain. It was a cloudy, unsettledday, but still enough after yesterday's boisterous ordeal. Weretraced our way past Sonderburg, and thence sailed for a faintline of pale green on the far south-western horizon. It was duringthis passage that an incident occurred, which, slight as it was,opened my eyes to much.

A flight of wild duck crossed our bows at some little distance,a wedge-shaped phalanx of craning necks and flapping wings. Ihappened to be steering while Davies verified our course below; butI called him up at once, and a discussion began about our chancesof sport. Davies was gloomy over them.

"Those fellows at Satrup were rather doubtful," he said. "Thereare plenty of ducks, but I made out that it's not easy forstrangers to get shooting. The whole country's so very civilised;it's not wild enough, is it?"

He looked at me. I had no very clear opinion. It was anythingbut wild in one sense, but there seemed to be wild enough spots forducks. The shore we were passing appeared to be bordered by lonelymarshes, though a spacious champaign showed behind. If it were notfor the beautiful places we had seen, and my growing taste for ourway of seeing them, his disappointing vagueness would have nettledme more than it did. For, after all, he had brought me out loadedwith sporting equipment under a promise of shooting.

"Bad weather is what we want for ducks," he said; "but I'mafraid we're in the wrong place for them. Now, if it was the NorthSea, among those Frisian Islands——" His tone was timidand interrogative, and I felt at once that he was sounding me as tosome unpalatable plan whose nature began to dawn on me.

He stammered on through a sentence or two about "wildness" and"nobody to interfere with you," and then I broke in: "You surelydon't want to leave the Baltic?"

"Why not?" said he, staring into the compass.

"Hang it, man!" I returned, tartly, "here we are in October, thesummer over, and the weather gone to pieces. We're alone in aco*ckle-shell boat, at a time when every other yacht of our size islaying up for the winter. Luckily, we seem to have struck an idealcruising-ground, with a wide choice of safe fiords and a goodprospect of ducks, if we choose to take a little trouble aboutthem. You can't mean to waste time and run risks" (I thought of thetorn leaf in the log-book) "in a long voyage to those forbiddinghaunts of yours in the North Sea."

"It's not very long," said Davies, doggedly. "Part of it'scanal, and the rest is quite safe if you're careful. There's plentyof sheltered water, and it's not reallynecessary——"

"What's it all for?" I interrupted, impatiently. "Wehaven't tried for shooting here yet. You've no notion, haveyou, of getting the boat back to England this autumn?"

"England?" he muttered. "Oh, I don't much care." Again hisvagueness jarred on me; there seemed to be some bar between us,invisible and insurmountable. And, after all, what was I doinghere? Roughing it in a shabby little yacht, utterly out of myelement, with a man who, a week ago, was nothing to me, and who nowwas a tiresome enigma. Like swift poison the old morbid mood inwhich I left London spread through me. All I had learnt and seenslipped away; what I had suffered remained. I was on the point ofsaying something which might have put a precipitate end to ourcruise, but he anticipated me.

"I'm awfully sorry," he broke out, "for being such a selfishbrute. I don't know what I was thinking about. You're a brick tojoin me in this sort of life, and I'm afraid I'm an infernally badhost. Of course this is just the place to cruise. I forgot aboutthe scenery, and all that. Let's ask about the ducks here. As yousay, we're sure to get sport if we worry and push a bit. We must benearly there now—yes, there's the entrance. Take the helm,will you?"

He sprang up the mast like a monkey, and gazed over the landfrom the cross-trees. I looked up at my enigma and thankedProvidence I had not spoken; for no one could have resisted hisfrank outburst of good nature. Yet it occurred to me that,considering the conditions of our life, our intimacy was strangelyslow in growth. I had no clue yet as to where his idiosyncrasiesbegan and his self ended, and he, I surmised, was in the same stagetowards me. Otherwise I should have pressed him further now, for Ifelt convinced that there was some mystery in his behaviour which Ihad not yet accounted for. However, light was soon to break.

I could see no sign of the entrance he had spoken of, and nowonder, for it is only eighty yards wide, though it leads to afiord thirty miles long. All at once we were jolting in a tumble ofsea, and the channel grudgingly disclosed itself, stealing betweenmarshes and meadows and then broadening to a mere, as at Ekken. Weanchored close to the mouth, and not far from a group of vessels ofa type that afterwards grew very familiar to me. They weresailing-barges, something like those that ply in the Thames,bluff-bowed, high-sterned craft of about fifty tons, ketch-rigged,and fitted with lee-boards, very light spars, and a long tip-tiltedbowsprit. (For the future I shall call them "galliots".) Otherwisethe only sign of life was a solitary white house—the pilot'shouse, the chart told us—close to the northern point ofentrance. After tea we called on the pilot. Patriarchally installedbefore a roaring stove, in the company of a buxom bustlingdaughter-in-law and some rosy grandchildren, we found a rotund andrubicund person, who greeted us with a hoarse roar of welcome inGerman, which instantly changed, when he saw us, to the funniestbroken English, spoken with intense relish and pride. We explainedourselves and our mission as well as we could through thehospitable interruptions caused by beer and the strains of a hugemusical box, which had been set going in honour of our arrival.Needless to say, I was read like a book at once, and fell into thepart of listener.

"Yes, yes," he said, "all right. There is plenty ducks, butfirst we will drink a glass beer; then we will shift your ship,captain—she lies not good there." (Davies started up in apanic, but was waved back to his beer.) "Then we will drinktogether another glass beer; then we will talk of ducks—no,then we will kill ducks—that is better. Then we will haveplenty glasses beer."

This was an unexpected climax, and promised well for ourprospects. And the programme was fully carried out. After the beerour host was packed briskly by his daughter into an armour ofwoollen gaiters, coats, and mufflers, topped with a worsted helmet,which left nothing of his face visible but a pair of twinklingeyes. Thus equipped, he led the way out of doors, and roared forHans and his gun, till a great gawky youth, with high cheek-bonesand a downy beard, came out from the yard and sheepishly shook ourhands.

Together we repaired to the quay, where the pilot stood, lookinglike a genial ball of worsted, and bawled hoarse directions whilewe shifted the Dulcibella to a berth on the farther shoreclose to the other vessels. We returned with our guns, and theinterval for refreshments followed. It was just dusk when wesallied out again, crossed a stretch of bog-land, and took upstrategic posts round a stagnant pond. Hans had been sent to drive,and the result was a fine mallard and three ducks. It was true thatall fell to the pilot's gun, perhaps owing to Hans's filialinstinct and his parent's canny egotism in choosing his own lair,or perhaps it was chance; but the shooting-party was none the lessa triumphal success. It was celebrated with beer and music asbefore, while the pilot, an infant on each podgy knee, discoursedexuberantly on the glories of his country and the Elysian contentof his life. "There is plenty beer, plenty meat, plenty money,plenty ducks," summed up his survey.

It may have been fancy, but Davies, though he had fits andstarts of vivacity, seemed very inattentive, considering that wewere sitting at the feet of so expansive an oracle. It was I whoelicited most of the practical information—details of time,weather, and likely places for shooting, with some shrewd hints asto the kind of people to conciliate. Whatever he thought of me, Iwarmed with sympathy towards the pilot, for he assumed that we haddone with cruising for the year, and thought us mad enough as itwas to have been afloat so long, and madder still to intend livingon "so little a ship" when we could live on land with beer andmusic handy. I was tempted to raise the North Sea question, just towatch Davies under the thunder of rebukes which would follow. But Irefrained from a wish to be tender with him, now that all was goingso well. The Frisian Islands were an extravagant absurdity now. Idid not even refer to them as we pulled back to theDulcibella, after swearing eternal friendship with the goodpilot and his family.

Davies and I turned in good friends that night—or rather Ishould say that I turned in, for I left him sucking an empty pipeand aimlessly fingering a volume of Mahan; and once when I woke inthe night I felt somehow that his bunk was empty and that he wasthere in the dark cabin, dreaming.

CHAPTER VII.
The Missing Page

I woke (on the 1st of October) with that dispiriting sensationthat a hitch has occurred in a settled plan. It was explained whenI went on deck, and I found the Dulcibella wrapped in a fog,silent, clammy, nothing visible from her decks but the ghostly hullof a galliot at anchor near us. She must have brought up there inthe night, for there had been nothing so close the evening before;and I remembered that my sleep had been broken once by sounds ofrumbling chain and gruff voices.

"This looks pretty hopeless for to-day," I said, with a shiver,to Davies, who was laying the breakfast.

"Well, we can't do anything till this fog lifts," he answered,with a good deal of resignation. Breakfast was a cheerless meal.The damp penetrated to the very cabin, whose roof and walls wept afine dew. I had dreaded a bathe, and yet missed it, and the ghastlylight made the tablecloth look dirtier than it naturally was, andall the accessories more sordid. Something had gone wrong with thebacon, and the lack of egg-cups was not in the least humorous.

Davies was just beginning, in his summary way, to tumble thethings together for washing up, when there was a sound of a step ondeck, two sea-boots appeared on the ladder, and, before we couldwonder who the visitor was, a little man in oilskins and asou'-wester was stooping towards us in the cabin door, smilingaffectionately at Davies out of a round grizzled beard.

"Well met, captain," he said, quietly, in German. "Where are youbound to this time?"

"Bartels!" exclaimed Davies, jumping up. The two stoopingfigures, young and old, beamed at one another like father andson.

"Where have you come from? Have some coffee. How's theJohannes? Was that you that came in last night? I'mdelighted to see you!" (I spare the reader his uncouth lingo.) Thelittle man was dragged in and seated on the opposite sofa tome.

"I took my apples to Kappeln," he said, sedately, "and now Isail to Kiel, and so to Hamburg, where my wife and children are. Itis my last voyage of the year. You are no longer alone, captain, Isee." He had taken off his dripping sou'-wester and was bowingceremoniously towards me.

"Oh, I quite forgot!" said Davies, who had been kneeling on oneknee in the low doorway, absorbed in his visitor. "This is'meiner Freund,' Herr Carruthers. Carruthers, this is myfriend, Schiffer Bartels, of the galliot Johannes."

Was I never to be at an end of the puzzles which Daviespresented to me? All the impulsive heartiness died out of his voiceand manner as he uttered the last few words, and there he was,nervously glancing from the visitor to me, like one who, againsthis will or from tactlessness, has introduced two persons who heknows will disagree.

There was a pause while he fumbled with the cups, poured somecold coffee out and pondered over it as though it were a chemicalexperiment. Then he muttered something about boiling some morewater, and took refuge in the forecastle. I was ill at ease at thisperiod with seafaring men, but this mild little person was easyground for a beginner. Besides, when he took off his oilskin coathe reminded me less of a sailor than of a homely draper of somecountry town, with his clean turned-down collar and neatly fittingfrieze jacket. We exchanged some polite platitudes about the fogand his voyage last night from Kappeln, which appeared to be a townsome fifteen miles up the fiord.

Davies joined in from the forecastle with an excess of warmthwhich almost took the words out of my mouth. We exhausted thesubject very soon, and then my vis-à-vis smiled paternallyat me, as he had done at Davies, and said, confidentially:

"It is good that the captain is no more alone. He is a fineyoung man—Heaven, what a fine young man! I love him as myson—but he is too brave, too reckless. It is good for him tohave a friend."

I nodded and laughed, though in reality I was very far frombeing amused.

"Where was it you met?" I asked.

"In an ugly place, and in ugly weather," he answered, gravely,but with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "But has he not told you?" headded, with ponderous slyness. "I came just in time. No! what am Isaying? He is brave as a lion and quick as a cat. I think he cannotdrown; but still it was an ugly place and ugly——"

"What are you talking about, Bartels?" interrupted Davies,emerging noisily with a boiling kettle.

I answered the question. "I was just asking your friend how itwas you made his acquaintance."

"Oh, he helped me out of a bit of a mess in the North Sea,didn't you, Bartels?" he said.

"It was nothing," said Bartels. "But the North Sea is no placefor your little boat, captain. So I have told you many times. Howdid you like Flensburg? A fine town, is it not? Did you find HerrKrank, the carpenter? I see you have placed a little mizzen-mast.The rudder was nothing much, but it was well that it held to theEider. But she is strong and good, your little ship,and—Heaven!—she had need be so." He chuckled, and shookhis head at Davies as at a wayward child.

This is all the conversation that I need record. For my part Imerely waited for its end, determined on my course, which was toknow the truth once and for all, and make an end of thesedistracting mystifications. Davies plied his friend with coffee,and kept up the talk gallantly; but affectionate as he was, hismanner plainly showed that he wanted to be alone with me.

The gist of the little skipper's talk was a parental warningthat, though we were well enough here in the "Ost-See", it was timefor little boats to be looking for winter quarters. That he himselfwas going by the Kiel Canal to Hamburg to spend a cosy winter as adecent citizen at his warm fireside, and that we should follow hisexample. He ended with an invitation to us to visit him on theJohannes, and with suave farewells disappeared into the fog.Davies saw him into his boat, returned without wasting a moment,and sat down on the sofa opposite me.

"What did he mean?" I asked.

"I'll tell you," said Davies, "I'll tell you the whole thing. Asfar as you're concerned it's partly a confession. Last night I hadmade up my mind to say nothing, but when Bartels turned up I knewit must all come out. It's been fearfully on my mind, and perhapsyou'll be able to help me. But it's for you to decide."

"Fire away!" I said.

"You know what I was saying about the Frisian Islands the otherday? A thing happened there which I never told you, when you wereasking about my cruise."

"It began near Norderney," I put in.

"How did you guess that?" he asked.

"You're a bad hand at duplicity," I replied. "Go on."

"Well, you're quite right, it was there, on September 9. I toldyou the sort of thing I was doing at that time, but I don't think Isaid that I made inquiries from one or two people aboutduck-shooting, and had been told by some fishermen at Borkum thatthere was a big sailing-yacht in those waters, whose owner, aGerman of the name of Dollmann, shot a good deal, and might give mesome tips. Well, I found this yacht one evening, knowing it must beher from the description I had. She was what is called a'barge-yacht', of fifty or sixty tons, built for shallow water onthe lines of a Dutch galliot, with lee-boards and those queer roundbows and square stern. She's something like those galliots anchorednear us now. You sometimes see the same sort of yacht in Englishwaters, only there they copy the Thames barges. She looked aclipper of her sort, and very smart; varnished all over and shininglike gold. I came on her about sunset, after a long day ofexploring round the Ems estuary. She was lyingin——"

"Wait a bit, let's have the chart," I interrupted.

Davies found it and spread it on the table between us, firstpushing back the cloth and the breakfast things to one end, wherethey lay in a slovenly litter. This was one of the only twooccasions on which I ever saw him postpone the rite of washing up,and it spoke volumes for the urgency of the matter in hand.

"Here it is," said Davies [See Map A]and I looked with a new and strange interest at the long string ofslender islands, the parallel line of coast, and the confusion ofshoals, banks, and channels which lay between. "Here's Norderney,you see. By the way, there's a harbour there at the west end of theisland, the only real harbour on the whole line of islands, Dutchor German, except at Terschelling. There's quite a big town there,too, a watering place, where Germans go for sea-bathing in thesummer. Well, the Medusa, that was her name, was lying inthe Riff Gat roadstead, flying the German ensign, and I anchoredfor the night pretty near her. I meant to visit her owner later on,but I very nearly changed my mind, as I always feel rather a foolon smart yachts, and my German isn't very good. However, I thoughtI might as well; so, after dinner, when it was dark, I sculled overin the dinghy, hailed a sailor on deck, said who I was, and askedif I could see the owner. The sailor was a surly sort of chap, andthere was a good long delay while I waited on deck, feeling moreand more uncomfortable. Presently a steward came up and showed medown the companion and into the saloon, which, after this,looked—well, horribly gorgeous—you know what I mean,plush lounges, silk cushions, and that sort of thing. Dinner seemedto be just over, and wine and fruit were on the table. HerrDollmann was there at his coffee. I introduced myselfsomehow——"

"Stop a moment," I said; "what was he like?"

"Oh, a tall, thin chap, in evening dress; about fifty I suppose,with greyish hair and a short beard. I'm not good at describingpeople. He had a high, bulging forehead, and there was somethingabout him—but I think I'd better tell you the bare factsfirst. I can't say he seemed pleased to see me, and he couldn'tspeak English, and, in fact, I felt infernally awkward. Still, Ihad an object in coming, and as I was there I thought I might aswell gain it."

The notion of Davies in his Norfolk jacket and rusty flannelsharanguing a frigid German in evening dress in a "gorgeous" saloontickled my fancy greatly.

"He seemed very much astonished to see me; had evidently seenthe Dulcibella arrive, and had wondered what she was. Ibegan as soon as I could about the ducks, but he shut me up atonce, said I could do nothing hereabouts. I put it down tosportsman's jealousy—you know what that is. But I saw I hadcome to the wrong shop, and was just going to back out and end thisunpleasant interview, when he thawed a bit, offered me some wine,and began talking in quite a friendly way, taking a great interestin my cruise and my plans for the future. In the end we sat upquite late, though I never felt really at my ease. He seemed to betaking stock of me all the time, as though I were some new animal."(How I sympathised with that German!) "We parted civilly enough,and I rowed back and turned in, meaning to potter on eastwardsearly next day.

"But I was knocked up at dawn by a sailor with a message fromDollmann asking if he could come to breakfast with me. I was ratherflabbergasted, but didn't like to be rude, so I said, 'Yes.' Well,he came, and I returned the call—and—well, the end ofit was that I stayed at anchor there for three days." This wasrather abrupt.

"How did you spend the time?" I asked. Stopping three daysanywhere was an unusual event for him, as I knew from his log.

"Oh, I lunched or dined with him once or twice—withthem, I ought to say," he added, hurriedly. "His daughterwas with him. She didn't appear the evening I first called."

"And what was she like?" I asked, promptly, before he couldhurry on.

"Oh, she seemed a very nice girl," was the guarded reply,delivered with particular unconcern, "and—the end of it wasthat I and the Medusa sailed away in company. I must tellyou how it came about, just in a few words for the present.

"It was his suggestion. He said he had to sail to Hamburg, andproposed that I should go with him in the Dulcibella as faras the Elbe, and then, if I liked, I could take the ship canal atBrunsbüttel through to Kiel and the Baltic. I had no very fixedplans of my own, though I had meant to go on exploring eastwardsbetween the islands and the coast, and so reach the Elbe in a muchslower way. He dissuaded me from this, sticking to it that I shouldhave no chance of ducks, and urging other reasons. Anyway, wesettled to sail in company direct to Cuxhaven, in the Elbe. With afair wind and an early start it should be only one day's sail ofabout sixty miles.

"The plan only came to a head on the evening of the third day,on the 12th of September.

"I told you, I think, that the weather had broken after a longspell of heat. That very day it had been blowing pretty hard fromthe west, and the glass was falling still. I said, of course, thatI couldn't go with him if the weather was too bad, but heprophesied a good day, said it was an easy sail, and altogether putme on my mettle. You can guess how it was. Perhaps I had talkedabout single-handed cruising as though it were easier than it was,though I never meant it in a boasting way, for I hate that sort ofthing, and besides there is no danger if you'recareful——"

"Oh, go on," I said.

"Anyway, we went next morning at six. It was a dirty-lookingday, wind W.N.W., but his sails were going up and mine followed. Itook two reefs in, and we sailed out into the open and steeredE.N.E. along the coast for the Outer Elbe Lightship about fiftyknots off. Here it all is, you see." (He showed me the course onthe chart.) "The trip was nothing for his boat, of course, a safe,powerful old tub, forging through the sea as steady as a house. Ikept up with her easily at first. My hands were pretty full, forthere was a hard wind on my quarter and a troublesome sea; but aslong as nothing worse came I knew I should be all right, though Ialso knew that I was a fool to have come.

"All went well till we were off Wangeroog, the last of theislands—here—and then it began to blow reallyhard. I had half a mind to chuck it and cut into the Jade River,down there," but I hadn't the face to, so I hove to and tookin my last reef." (Simple words, simply uttered; but I had seen theoperation in calm water and shuddered at the present picture.) "Wehad been about level till then, but with my shortened canvas I fellbehind. Not that that mattered in the least. I knew my course, hadread up my tides, and, thick as the weather was, I had no doubt ofbeing able to pick up the lightship. No change of plan was possiblenow. The Weser estuary was on my starboard hand, but the wholeplace was a lee-shore and a mass of unknown banks—just lookat them. I ran on, the Dulcibella doing her level best, butwe had some narrow shaves of being pooped. I was about here,say six miles south-west of the lightship, [See Chart A] when I suddenly saw that theMedusa had hove to right ahead, as though waiting till Icame up. She wore round again on the course as I drew level, and wewere alongside for a bit. Dollmann lashed the wheel, leaned overher quarter, and shouted, very slowly and distinctly so that Icould understand; 'Follow me—sea too bad for yououtside—short cut through sands—save six miles.'

"It was taking me all my time to manage the tiller, but I knewwhat he meant at once, for I had been over the chart carefully thenight before. [See Map A] You see, thewhole bay between Wangeroog and the Elbe is encumbered with sand. Agreat jagged chunk of it runs out from Cuxhaven in a north-westerlydirection for fifteen miles or so, ending in a pointed spit, calledthe Scharhorn. To reach the Elbe from the west you have togo right outside this, round the lightship, which is off theScharhorn, and double back. Of course, that's what all big vesselsdo. But, as you see, these sands are intersected here and there bychannels, very shallow and winding, exactly like those behind theFrisian Islands. Now look at this one, which cuts right through thebig chunk of sand and comes out near Cuxhaven. The Telte[See Chart A] it's called. It's mileswide, you see, at the entrance, but later on it is split into twoby the Hohenhörn bank: then it gets shallow and very complicated,and ends in a mere tidal driblet with another name. It's just thesort of channel I should like to worry into on a fine day or withan off-shore wind. Alone, in thick weather and a heavy sea, itwould have been folly to attempt it, except as a desperateresource. But, as I said I knew at once that Dollmann was proposingto run for it and guide me in.

"I didn't like the idea, because I like doing things for myself,and, silly as it sounds, I believe I resented being told the seawas too bad for me, which it certainly was. Yet the short cut didsave several miles and a devil of a tumble off the Scharhorn, wheretwo tides meet. I had complete faith in Dollmann, and I suppose Idecided that I should be a fool not to take a good chance. Ihesitated. I know; but in the end I nodded, and held up my arm asshe forged ahead again. Soon after, she shifted her course and Ifollowed. You asked me once if I ever took a pilot. That was theonly time."

He spoke with bitter gravity, flung himself back, and felt hispocket for his pipe. It was not meant for a dramatic pause, but itcertainly was one. I had just a glimpse of still anotherDavies—a Davies five years older throbbing with deepemotions, scorn, passion, and stubborn purpose; a being above myplane, of sterner stuff, wider scope. Intense as my interest hadbecome, I waited almost timidly while he mechanically rammedtobacco into his pipe and struck ineffectual matches. I felt thatwhatever the riddle to be solved, it was no mean one. He repressedhimself with an effort, half rose, and made his circular glance atthe clock, barometer, and skylight, and then resumed.

"We soon came to what I knew must be the beginning of the Teltechannel. All round you could hear the breakers on the sands, thoughit was too thick to see them yet. As the water shoaled, the sea, ofcourse, got shorter and steeper. There was more wind—a wholegale I should say.

"I kept dead in the wake of the Medusa, but to my disgustI found she was gaining on me very fast. Of course I had taken forgranted, when he said he would lead me in, that he would slow downand keep close to me. He could easily have done so by getting hismen up to check his sheets or drop his peak. Instead of that he wasbusting on for all he was worth. Once, in a rain-squall, I lostsight of him altogether; got him faintly again, but had enough todo with my own tiller not to want to be peering through the scudafter a runaway pilot. I was all right so far, but we were fastapproaching the worst part of the whole passage, where theHohenhörn bank blocks the road, and the channel divides. I don'tknow what it looks like to you on the chart—perhaps fairlysimple, because you can follow the twists of the channels, as on aground-plan; but a stranger coming to a place like that (wherethere are no buoys, mind you) can tell nothing certain by theeye—unless perhaps at dead low water, when the banks are highand dry, and in very clear weather—he must trust to the leadand the compass, and feel his way step by step. I knew perfectlywell that what I should soon see would be a wall of surf stretchingright across and on both sides. To feel one's way in thatsort of weather is impossible. You must know your way, orelse have a pilot. I had one, but he was playing his own game.

"With a second hand on board to steer while I conned I shouldhave felt less of an ass. As it was, I knew I ought to be facingthe music in the offing, and cursed myself for having broken myrule and gone blundering into this confounded short cut. It wasgiving myself away, doing just the very thing that you can't do insingle-handed sailing.

"By the time I realised the danger it was far too late to turnand hammer out to the open. I was deep in the bottle-neck bight ofthe sands, jammed on a lee shore, and a strong flood tide sweepingme on. That tide, by the way, gave just the ghost of a chance. Ihad the hours in my head, and knew it was about two-thirds flood,with two hours more of rising water. That meant the banks would beall covering when I reached them, and harder than ever to locate;but it also meant that I might float right over the worst ofthem if I hit off a lucky place." Davies thumped the table indisgust. "Pah! It makes me sick to think of having to trust to anaccident like that, like a lubberly co*ckney out for a boozy BankHoliday sail. Well, just as I foresaw, the wall of surf appearedclean across the horizon, and curling back to shut me in, boominglike thunder. When I last saw the Medusa she seemed to becharging it like a horse at a fence, and I took a rough bearing ofher position by a hurried glance at the compass. At that verymoment I thought she seemed to luff and show some of herbroadside; but a squall blotted her out and gave me hell with thetiller. After that she was lost in the white mist that hung overthe line of breakers. I kept on my bearing as well as I could, butI was already out of the channel. I knew that by the look of thewater, and as we neared the bank I saw it was all awash and withoutthe vestige of an opening. I wasn't going to chuck her on to itwithout an effort; so, more by instinct than with any particularhope, I put the helm down, meaning to work her along the edge onthe chance of spotting a way over. She was buried at once by thebeam sea, and the jib flew to blazes; but the reefed stays'l stood,she recovered gamely, and I held on, though I knew it could only befor a few minutes, as the centre-plate was up, and she madefrightful leeway towards the bank.

"I was half-blinded by scud, but suddenly I noticed what lookedlike a gap, behind a spit which curled out right ahead. I luffedstill more to clear this spit, but she couldn't weather it. Beforeyou could say knife she was driving across it, bumped heavily,bucked forward again, bumped again, and—ripped on in deeperwater! I can't describe the next few minutes. I was in some sort ofchannel, but a very narrow one, and the sea broke everywhere. Ihadn't proper command either; for the rudder had crocked up somehowat the last bump. I was like a drunken man running for his lifedown a dark alley, barking himself at every corner. It couldn'tlast long, and finally we went crash on to something and stoppedthere, grinding and banging. So ended that little trip under apilot.

"Well, it was like this—there was really nodanger"—I opened my eyes at the characteristic phrase. "Imean, that lucky stumble into a channel was my salvation. Sincethen I had struggled through a mile of sands, all of which laybehind me like a breakwater against the gale. They were covered, ofcourse, and seething like soapsuds; but the force of the sea wasdeadened. The Dulce was bumping, but not too heavily. It wasnearing high tide, and at half ebb she would be high and dry.

"In the ordinary way I should have run out a kedge with thedinghy, and at the next high water sailed farther in and anchoredwhere I could lie afloat. The trouble was now that my hand was hurtand my dinghy stove in, not to mention the rudder business. It wasthe first bump on the outer edge that did the damage. There was aheavy swell there, and when we struck, the dinghy, which was towingastern, came home on her painter and down with a crash on theyacht's weather quarter. I stuck out one hand to ward it off andgot it nipped on the gunwale. She was badly stove in and useless,so I couldn't run out the kedge"—this was Greek to me, but Ilet him go on—"and for the present my hand was too painfuleven to stow the boom and sails, which were whipping and racketingabout anyhow. There was the rudder, too, to be mended; and we wereseveral miles from the nearest land. Of course, if the wind fell,it was all easy enough; but if it held or increased it was a poorlook-out. There's a limit to strain of that sort—and otherthings might have happened.

"In fact, it was precious lucky that Bartels turned up. Hisgalliot was at anchor a mile away, up a branch of the channel. In aclear between squalls he saw us, and, like a brick, rowed his boatout—he and his boy, and a devil of a pull they must have had.I was glad enough to see them—no, that's not true; I was insuch a fury of disgust and shame that I believe I should have beenidiot enough to say I didn't want help, if he hadn't just nipped onboard and started work. He's a terror to work, that little mouse ofa chap. In half an hour he had stowed the sails, unshackled the biganchor, run out fifty fathoms of warp, and hauled her off there andthen into deep water. Then they towed her up the channel—itwas dead to leeward and an easy job—and berthed her neartheir own vessel. It was dark by that time, so I gave them a drink,and said good-night. It blew a howling gale that night, but theplace was safe enough, with good ground-tackle.

"The whole affair was over; and after supper I thought hardabout it all."

CHAPTER VIII.
The Theory

Davies leaned back and gave a deep sigh, as though he still feltthe relief from some tension. I did the same, and felt the samerelief. The chart, freed from the pressure of our fingers, rolledup with a flip, as though to say, "What do you think of that?" Ihave straightened out his sentences a little, for in the excitementof his story they had grown more and more jerky and elliptical.

"What about Dollmann?" I asked.

"Of course," said Davies, "what about him? I didn't get at muchthat night. It was all so sudden. The only thing I could have swornto from the first was that he had purposely left me in the lurchthat day. I pieced out the rest in the next few days, which I'lljust finish with as shortly as I can. Bartels came aboard nextmorning, and though it was blowing hard still we managed to shiftthe Dulcibella to a place where she dried safely at themidday low water, and we could get at her rudder. The lowerscrew-plate on the stern post had wrenched out, and we botched itup roughly as a makeshift. There were other little breakages, butnothing to matter, and the loss of the jib was nothing, as I hadtwo spare ones. The dinghy was past repair just then, and I lashedit on deck.

"It turned out that Bartels was carrying apples from Bremen toKappeln (in this fiord), and had run into that channel in the sandsfor shelter from the weather. To-day he was bound for the EiderRiver, whence, as I told you, you can get through (by river andcanal) into the Baltic. Of course the Elbe route, by the new KaiserWilhelm ship canal, is the shortest. The Eider route is the oldone, but he hoped to get rid of some of his apples at Tönning, thetown at its mouth. Both routes touch the Baltic at Kiel. As youknow, I had been running for the Elbe, but yesterday's muck-up putme off, and I changed my mind—I'll tell you whypresently—and decided to sail to the Eider along with theJohannes and get through that way. It cleared from the eastnext day, and I raced him there, winning hands down, left him atTönning, and in three days was in the Baltic. It was just a weekafter I ran ashore that I wired to you. You see, I had come to theconclusion that that chap was a spy."

In the end it came out quite quietly and suddenly, and left mein profound amazement. "I wired to you—that chap was a spy."It was the close association of these two ideas that hit me hardestat the moment. For a second I was back in the dreary splendour ofthe London club-room, spelling out that crabbed scrawl from Davies,and fastidiously criticising its proposal in the light of aholiday. Holiday! What was to be its issue? Chilling and opaque asthe fog that filtered through the skylight there flooded myimagination a mist of doubt and fear.

"A spy!" I repeated blankly. "What do you mean? Why did you wireto me? A spy of what—of whom?"

"I'll tell you how I worked it out," said Davies. "I don't think'spy' is the right word; but I mean something pretty bad.

"He purposely put me ashore. I don't think I'm suspicious bynature, but I know something about boats and the sea. I know hecould have kept close to me if he had chosen, and I saw the wholeplace at low water when we left those sands on the second day. Lookat the chart again. Here's the Hohenhörn bank that I showed you asblocking the road. [See Chart A] It'sin two pieces—first the west and then the east. You see theTelte channel dividing into two branches and curving round it. Bothbranches are broad and deep, as channels go in those waters. Now,in sailing in I was nowhere near either of them. When I last sawDollmann he must have been steering straight for the bank itself,at a point somewhere here, quite a mile from the northernarm of the channel, and two from the southern. I followed bycompass, as you know, and found nothing but breakers ahead. How didI get through? That's where the luck came in. I spoke of only twochannels, that is, round the bank—one to the north,the other to the south. But look closely and you'll see that rightthrough the centre of the West Hohenhörn runs another, a verynarrow and winding one, so small that I hadn't even noticed it thenight before, when I was going over the chart. That was the one Istumbled into in that tailor's fashion, as I was groping along theedge of the surf in a desperate effort to gain time. I bolted downit blindly, came out into this strip of open water, crossed thataimlessly, and brought up on the edge of the East Hohenhörn,here. It was more than I deserved. I can see now that it wasa hundred to one in favour of my striking on a bad place outside,where I should have gone to pieces in three minutes."

"And how did Dollmann go?" I asked.

"It's as clear as possible," Davies answered. "He doubled backinto the northern channel when he had misled me enough. Do youremember my saying that when I last saw him I thought he hadluffed and showed his broadside? I had another bit of luck in that.He was luffing towards the north—so it struck me through theblur—and when I in my turn came up to the bank, and had toturn one way or the other to avoid it, I think I should naturallyhave turned north too, as he had done. In that case I should havebeen done for, for I should have had a mile of the bank to skirtbefore reaching the north channel, and should have driven ashorelong before I got there. But as a matter of fact I turnedsouth."

"Why?"

"Couldn't help it. I was running on the starboardtack—boom over to port; to turn north would have meant ajibe, and as things were I couldn't risk one. It was blowing likefits; if anything had carried away I should have been on shore in ajiffy. I scarcely thought about it at all, but put the helm downand turned her south. Though I knew nothing about it, that littlecentral channel was now on my port hand, distant about two cables.The whole thing was luck from beginning to end."

Helped by pluck, I thought to myself, as I tried with mylandsman's fancy to conjure up that perilous scene. As to the truthof the affair, the chart and Davies's version were easy enough tofollow, but I felt only half convinced. The "spy", as Daviesstrangely called his pilot, might have honestly mistaken the coursehimself, outstripped his convoy inadvertently, and escaped disasteras narrowly as she did. I suggested this on the spur of the moment,but Davies was impatient.

"Wait till you hear the whole thing," he said. "I must go backto when I first met him. I told you that on that first evening hebegan by being as rude as a bear and as cold as stone, and thenbecame suddenly friendly. I can see now that in the talk thatfollowed he was pumping me hard. It was an easy game to play, for Ihadn't seen a gentleman since Morrison left me, I was tremendouslykeen about my voyage, and I thought the chap was a good sportsman,even if he was a bit dark about the ducks. I talked quitefreely—at least, as freely as I could with my badGerman—about my last fortnight's sailing; how I had beensmelling out all the channels in and out of the islands, howinterested I had been in the whole business, puzzling out theeffect of the winds on the tides, the set of the currents, and soon. I talked about my difficulties, too; the changes in the buoys,the prehistoric rottenness of the English charts. He drew me out asmuch as he could, and in the light of what followed I can see thepoint of scores of his questions.

"The next day and the next I saw a good deal of him, and thesame thing went on. And then there were my plans for the future. Myidea was, as I told you, to go on exploring the German coast justas I had the Dutch. His idea—Heavens, how plainly I see itnow!—was to choke me off, get me to clear out altogether fromthat part of the coast. That was why he said there were no ducks.That was why he cracked up the Baltic as a cruising-ground andshooting-ground. And that was why he broached and stuck to thatplan of sailing in company direct to the Elbe. It was to seeme clear.

"He improved on that."

"Yes, but after that, it's guess-work. I mean that I can't tellwhen he first decided to go one better and drown me. He couldn'tcount for certain on bad weather, though he held my nose to it whenit came. But, granted that he wanted to get rid of me altogether,he got a magnificent chance on that trip to the Elbe lightship. Iexpect it struck him suddenly, and he acted on the impulse. Left tomyself I was all right; but the short cut was a grand idea of his.Everything was in its favour—wind, sea, sand, tide. He thinksI'm dead."

"But the crew?" I said; "what about the crew?"

"That's another thing. When he first hove to, waiting for me, ofcourse they were on deck (two of them, I think) hauling at sheets.But by the time I had drawn up level the Medusa had wornround again on her course, and no one was on deck but Dollmann atthe wheel. No one overheard what he said."

"Wouldn't they have seen you again?"

"Very likely not; the weather was very thick, and theDulce is very small."

The incongruity of the whole business was striking me. Whyshould anyone want to kill Davies, and why should Davies, the soulof modesty and simplicity, imagine that anyone wanted to kill him?He must have cogent reasons, for he was the last man to give way toa morbid fancy.

"Go on," I said. "What was his motive? A German finds anEnglishman exploring a bit of German coast, determines to stop him,and even to get rid of him. It looks so far as if you were thoughtto be the spy.

Davies winced. "But he's not a German," he said, hotly."He's an Englishman."

"An Englishman?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it. Not that I've much to go on. He professedto know very little English, and never spoke it, except a word ortwo now and then to help me out of a sentence; and as to hisGerman, he seemed to me to speak it like a native; but, of course,I'm no judge." Davies sighed. "That's where I wanted someone likeyou. You would have spotted him at once, if he wasn't German. I gomore by a—what do you call it?—a——"

"General impression," I suggested.

"Yes, that's what I mean. It was something in his looks andmanner; you know how different we are from foreigners. And itwasn't only himself, it was the way he talked—I mean aboutcruising and the sea, especially. It's true he let me do most ofthe talking; but, all the same—how can I explain it? I feltwe understood one another, in a way that two foreignerswouldn't.

"He pretended to think me a bit crazy for coming so far in asmall boat, but I could swear he knew as much about the game as Idid; for lots of little questions he asked had the right ring inthem. Mind you, all this is an afterthought. I should never havebothered about it—I'm not cut out for a SherlockHolmes—if it hadn't been for what followed."

"It's rather vague," I said. "Have you no more definite reasonfor thinking him English?"

"There were one or two things rather more definite," saidDavies, slowly. "You know when he hove to and hailed me, proposingthe short cut, I told you roughly what he said. I forget the exactwords, but 'abschneiden' came in—'durch Watten' and'abschneiden' (they call the banks 'watts', you know); they weresimple words, and he shouted them loud, so as to carry through thewind. I understood what he meant, but, as I told you, I hesitatedbefore consenting. I suppose he thought I didn't understand, forjust as he was drawing ahead again he pointed to the suth'ard, andthen shouted through his hands as a trumpet 'Verstehen Sie?short-cut through sands: follow me!' the last two sentences indownright English. I can hear those words now, and I'll swear theywere in his native tongue. Of course I thought nothing of it at thetime. I was quite aware that he knew a few English words, though hehad always mispronounced them; an easy trick when your hearersuspects nothing. But I needn't say that just then I was observantof trifles. I don't pretend to be able to unravel a plot and steera small boat before a heavy sea at the same moment."

"And if he was piloting you into the next world he could affordto commit himself before you parted! Was there anything else? Bythe way, how did the daughter strike you? Did she look Englishtoo?"

Two men cannot discuss a woman freely without a deep foundationof intimacy, and, until this day, the subject had never arisenbetween us in any form. It was the last that was likely to, for Icould have divined that Davies would have met it with an armour ofreserve. He was busy putting on this armour now; yet I could nothelp feeling a little brutal as I saw how badly he jointed hisclumsy suit of mail. Our ages were the same, but I laugh now tothink how old and blasé I felt as the flush warmed his brownskin, and he slowly propounded the verdict, "Yes, I think shedid."

"She talked nothing but German, I suppose?"

"Oh, of course."

"Did you see much of her?"

"A good deal."

"Was she——," (how frame it?) "Did she want you tosail to the Elbe with them?"

"She seemed to," admitted Davies, reluctantly, clutching at hisally, the match-box. "But, hang it, don't dream that she knew whatwas coming," he added, with sudden fire.

I pondered and wondered, shrinking from further inquisition,easy as it would have been with so truthful a victim, and banishingall thought of ill-timed chaff. There was a cross-current in thisstrange affair, whose depth and strength I was beginning to gaugewith increasing seriousness. I did not know my man yet, and I didnot know myself. A conviction that events in the near future wouldforce us into complete mutual confidence withheld me from pressinghim too far. I returned to the main question; who was Dollmann, andwhat was his motive? Davies struggled out of his armour.

"I'm convinced," he said, "that he's an Englishman in Germanservice. He must be in German service, for he had evidently been inthose waters a long time, and knew every inch of them; of course,it's a very lonely part of the world, but he has a house onNorderney Island; and he, and all about him, must be well known toa certain number of people. One of his friends I happened to meet;what do you think he was? A naval officer. It was on the afternoonof the third day, and we were having coffee on the deck of theMedusa, and talking about next day's trip, when a littlelaunch came buzzing up from seaward, drew alongside, and this chapI'm speaking of came on board, shook hands with Dollmann, andstared hard at me. Dollmann introduced us, calling him Commandervon Brüning, in command of the torpedo gunboat Blitz. Hepointed towards Norderney, and I saw her—a low, grey rat of avessel—anchored in the Roads about two miles away. It turnedout that she was doing the work of fishery guardship on that partof the coast.

"I must say I took to him at once. He looked a real good sort,and a splendid officer, too—just the sort of chap I shouldhave liked to be. You know I always wanted—but that's an oldstory, and can wait. I had some talk with him, and we got oncapitally as far as we went, but that wasn't far, for I left prettysoon, guessing that they wanted to be alone."

"Were they alone then?" I asked, innocently.

"Oh, Fräulein Dollmann was there, of course," explained Davies,feeling for his armour again.

"Did he seem to know them well?" I pursued, inconsequently.

"Oh, yes, very well."

Scenting a faint clue, I felt the need of feminine weapons formy sensitive antagonist. But the opportunity passed.

"That was the last I saw of him," he said. "We sailed, as I toldyou, at daybreak next morning. Now, have you got any idea what I'mdriving at?"

"A rough idea," I answered. "Go ahead."

Davies sat up to the table, unrolled the chart with a vigoroussweep of his two hands, and took up his parable with new zest.

"I start with two certainties," he said. "One is that I was'moved on' from that coast, because I was too inquisitive. Theother is that Dollmann is at some devil's work there which is worthfinding out. Now"—he paused in a gasping effort to be logicaland articulate. "Now—well, look at the chart. No, betterstill, look first at this map of Germany. It's on a small scale,and you can see the whole thing." He snatched down a pocket-mapfrom the shelf and unfolded it. [See MapA] "Here's this huge empire, stretching half over centralEurope—an empire growing like wildfire, I believe, in people,and wealth, and everything. They've licked the French, and theAustrians, and are the greatest military power in Europe. I wish Iknew more about all that, but what I'm concerned with is theirsea-power. It's a new thing with them, but it's going strong, andthat Emperor of theirs is running it for all it's worth. He's asplendid chap, and anyone can see he's right. They've got nocolonies to speak of, and must have them, like us. Theycan't get them and keep them, and they can't protect their hugecommerce without naval strength. The command of the sea isthe thing nowadays, isn't it? I say, don't think these aremy ideas," he added, naïvely. "It's all out of Mahan and thosefellows. Well, the Germans have got a small fleet at present, butit's a thundering good one, and they're building hard. There'sthe——and the——." He broke off into adigression on armaments and speeds in which I could not follow him.He seemed to know every ship by heart. I had to recall him to thepoint. "Well, think of Germany as a new sea-power," he resumed."The next thing is, what is her coast-line? It's a very queer one,as you know, split clean in two by Denmark, most of it lying eastof that and looking on the Baltic, which is practically an inlandsea, with its entrance blocked by Danish islands. It was to evadethat block that William built the ship canal from Kiel to the Elbe,but that could be easily smashed in war-time. Far the mostimportant bit of coast-line is that which lies west ofDenmark and looks on the North Sea. It's there that Germany getsher head out into the open, so to speak. It's there that she frontsus and France, the two great sea-powers of Western Europe, and it'sthere that her greatest ports are and her richest commerce.

"Now it must strike you at once that it's ridiculously shortcompared with the huge country behind it. From Borkum to the Elbe,as the crow flies, is only seventy miles. Add to that the westcoast of Schleswig, say 120 miles. Total, say, two hundred. Comparethat with the seaboard of France and England. Doesn't it stand toreason that every inch of it is important? Now what sort ofcoast is it? Even on this small map you can see at once, by allthose wavy lines, shoals and sand everywhere, blocking nine-tenthsof the land altogether, and doing their best to block the othertenth where the great rivers run in. Now let's take it bit by bit.You see it divides itself into three. Beginning from the west thefirst piece is from Borkum to Wangeroog—fifty oddmiles. What's that like? A string of sandy islands backed by sand;the Ems river at the western end, on the Dutch border, leading toEmden—not much of a place. Otherwise, no coast towns at all.Second piece: a deep sort of bay consisting of the threegreat estuaries—the Jade, the Weser and theElbe—leading to Wilhelmshaven (their North Sea naval base),Bremen, and Hamburg; total breadth of bay, twenty odd miles only;sandbanks littered about all through it. Third piece: theSchleswig coast, hopelessly fenced in behind a six to eight milefringe of sand. No big towns; one moderate river, the Eider. Let'sleave that third piece aside. I may be wrong, but, in thinking thisbusiness out, I've pegged away chiefly at the other two, theseventy-mile stretch from Borkum to the Elbe—half of itestuaries, and half islands. It was there that I found theMedusa, and it's that stretch that, thanks to him, I missedexploring."

I made an obvious conjecture. "I suppose there are forts andcoast defences? Perhaps he thought you would see too much. By theway, he saw your naval books, of course?"

"Exactly. Of course that was my first idea; but it can't bethat. It doesn't explain things in the least. To begin with, thereare no forts and can be none in that first division, wherethe islands are. There might be something on Borkum to defend theEms; but it's very unlikely, and, anyway, I had passed Borkum andwas at Norderney. There's nothing else to defend. Of course it'sdifferent in the second division, where the big rivers are. Thereare probably hosts of forts and mines round Wilhelmshaven andBremerhaven, and at Cuxhaven just at the mouth of the Elbe. Notthat I should ever dream of bothering about them; every steamerthat goes in would see as much as me. Personally, I much prefer tostay on board, and don't often go on shore. And, good Heavens!"(Davies leant back and laughed joyously) "do I look likethat kind of spy?"

I figured to myself one of those romantic gentlemen that onereads of in sixpenny magazines, with a Kodak in his tie-pin, asketch-book in the lining of his coat, and a selection of disguisesin his hand luggage. Little disposed for merriment as I was, Icould not help smiling, too.

"About this coast," resumed Davies. "In the event of war itseems to me that every inch of it would be important, sand andall. Take the big estuaries first, which, of course, might beattacked or blockaded by an enemy. At first sight you would saythat their main channels were the only things that mattered. Now,in time of peace there's no secrecy about the navigation of these.They're buoyed and lighted like streets, open to the whole world,and taking an immense traffic; well charted, too, as millions ofpounds in commerce depend on them. But now look at the sands theyrun through, intersected, as I showed you, by threads of channels,tidal for the most part, and probably only known to smacks andshallow coasters, like that galliot of Bartels.

"It strikes me that in a war a lot might depend on these, bothin defence and attack, for there's plenty of water in them at theright tide for patrol-boats and small torpedo craft, though I cansee they take a lot of knowing. Now, say we were at war withGermany—both sides could use them as lines between the threeestuaries; and to take our own case, a small torpedo-boat (not adestroyer, mind you) could on a dark night cut clean through fromthe Jade to the Elbe and play the deuce with the shipping there.But the trouble is that I doubt if there's a soul in our fleet whoknows those channels. We haven't coasters there; and, as toyachts, it's a most unlikely game for an English yacht to play at;but it does so happen that I have a fancy for that sort of thingand would have explored those channels in the ordinary course." Ibegan to see his drift.

"Now for the islands. I was rather stumped there at first, Igrant, because, though there are lashings of sand behind them, andthe same sort of intersecting channels, yet there seems nothingimportant to guard or attack.

"Why shouldn't a stranger ramble as he pleases through them?Still Dollmann had his headquarters there, and I was sure that hadsome meaning. Then it struck me that the same point held good, forthat strip of Frisian coast adjoins the estuaries, and would alsoform a splendid base for raiding midgets, which could travel unseenright through from the Ems to the Jade, and so to the Elbe, as by acovered way between a line of forts.

"Now here again it's an unknown land to us. Plenty of localgalliots travel it, but strangers never, I should say. Perhaps atthe most an occasional foreign yacht gropes in at one of the gapsbetween the islands for shelter from bad weather, and is preciouslucky to get in safe. Once again, it was my fad to like suchplaces, and Dollmann cleared me out. He's not a German, but he's inwith Germans, and naval Germans too. He's established on thatcoast, and knows it by heart. And he tried to drown me. Now what doyou think?" He gazed at me long and anxiously.

CHAPTER IX.
I Sign Articles

It was not an easy question to answer, for the affair wasutterly outside all my experience; its background the sea, and itsactual scene a region of the sea of which I was blankly ignorant.There were other difficulties that I could see perhaps better thanDavies, an enthusiast with hobbies, who had been brooding insolitude over his dangerous adventure. Yet both narrative andtheory (which have lost, I fear, in interpretation to the reader)had strongly affected me; his forcible roughnesses, tricks ofmanner, sudden bursts of ardour, sudden retreats into shyness,making up a charm I cannot render. I found myself continuallytrying to see the man through the boy, to distinguish soberjudgement from the hot-headed vagaries of youth. Not that I dreamedfor a moment of dismissing the story of his wreck as anhallucination. His clear blue eyes and sane simplicity threwridicule on such treatment.

Evidently, too, he wanted my help, a matter that might well haveinfluenced my opinion on the facts, had he been other than he was.But it would have taken a "finished and finite clod" to resist theattraction of the man and the enterprise; and I take no creditwhatever for deciding to follow him, right or wrong. So, when Istated my difficulties, I knew very well that we should go.

"There are two main points that I don't understand," I said."First, you've never explained why an Englishman should bewatching those waters and ejecting intruders; secondly, your theorydoesn't supply sufficient motive. There may be much in what you sayabout the navigation of those channels, but it's not enough. Yousay he wanted to drown you—a big charge, requiring a bigmotive to support it. But I don't deny that you've got a strongcase." Davies lighted up. "I'm willing to take a good deal forgranted—until we find out more."

He jumped up, and did a thing I never saw him do before orsince—bumped his head against the cabin roof.

"You mean that you'll come?" he exclaimed. "Why, I hadn't evenasked you! Yes, I want to go back and clear up the whole thing. Iknow now that I want to; telling it all to you has been such animmense relief. And a lot depended on you, too, and that's why I'vebeen feeling such an absolute hypocrite. I say, how can Iapologise?"

"Don't worry about me; I've had a splendid time. And I'll comeright enough; but I should like to know exactly whatyou——"

"No; but wait till I just make a clean breast of it—aboutyou, I mean. You see, I came to the conclusion that I could donothing alone; not that two are really necessary for managing theboat in the ordinary way, but for this sort of job you dowant two; besides, I can't speak German properly, and I'm a dullchap all round. If my theory, as you call it, is right, it's a casefor sharp wits, if ever there was one; so I thought of you. You'reclever, and I knew you had lived in Germany and knew German, and Iknew," he added, with a little awkwardness, "that you had done agood deal of yachting; but of course I ought to have told you whatyou were in for—roughing it in a small boat with no crew. Ifelt ashamed of myself when you wired back so promptly, and whenyou came—er——" Davies stammered and hesitated inthe humane resolve not to wound my feelings. "Of course I couldn'thelp noticing that it wasn't what you expected," was the delicatesummary he arrived at. "But you took it splendidly," he hastened toadd. "Only, somehow, I couldn't bring myself to talk about theplan. It was good enough of you to come out at all, withoutbothering you with hare-brained schemes. Beside, I wasn't even sureof myself. It's a tangled business. There were reasons, there arereasons still"—he looked nervously atme—"which—well, which make it a tangled business." Ihad thought a confidence was coming, and was disappointed. "I wasin an idiotic state of uncertainty," he hurried on; "but the plangrew on me more and more, when I saw how you were taking to thelife and beginning to enjoy yourself. All that about the ducks onthe Frisian coast was humbug; part of a stupid idea of decoying youthere and gaining time. However, you quite naturally objected, andlast night I meant to chuck the whole thing up and give you thebest time here I could. Then Bartels turned up——"

"Stop," I put in. "Did you know he might turn up when you sailedhere?"

"Yes," said Davies, guiltily. "I knew he might; and now it's allcome out, and you'll come! What a fool I've been!"

Long before he had finished I had grasped the whole meaning ofthe last few days, and had read their meaning into scores of littleincidents which had puzzled me.

"For goodness' sake, don't apologise," I protested. "I couldmake confessions, too, if I liked. And I doubt if you've been sucha fool as you think. I'm a patient that wants careful nursing, andit has been the merest chance all through that I haven't rebelledand bolted. We've got a good deal to thank the weather for, andother little stimulants. And you don't know yet my reasons fordeciding to try your cure at all."

"My cure?" said Davies; "what in the world do you mean? It wasjolly decent of you to——"

"Never mind! There's another view of it, but it doesn't matternow. Let's return to the point. What's your plan of action?"

"It's this," was the prompt reply: "to get back to the NorthSea, via Kiel and the ship canal. Then there will be twoobjects: one, to work back to Norderney, where I left off before,exploring all those channels through the estuaries and islands; theother, to find Dollmann, discover what he's up to, and settle withhim. The two things may overlap, we can't tell yet. I don't evenknow where he and his yacht are; but I'll be bound they'resomewhere in those same waters, and probably back atNorderney."

"It's a delicate matter," I mused, dubiously, "if your theory'scorrect. Spying on a spy——"

"It's not like that," said Davies, indignantly. "Anyone wholikes can sail about there and explore those waters. I say, youdon't really think it's like that, do you?"

"I don't think you're likely to do anything dishonourable," Ihastened to explain. "I grant you the sea's public property in yoursense. I only mean that developments are possible, which you don'treckon on. There must be more to find out than the merenavigation of those channels, and if that's so, mightn't we come tobe genuine spies ourselves?"

"And, after all, hang it!" exclaimed Davies, "if it comes tothat, why shouldn't we? I look at it like this. The man's anEnglishman, and if he's in with Germany he's a traitor to us, andwe as Englishmen have a right to expose him. If we can't do itwithout spying we've a right to spy, at our ownrisk——"

"There's a stronger argument than that. He tried to take yourlife."

"I don't care a rap about that. I'm not such an ass as to thirstfor revenge and all that, like some chap in a shilling shocker. Butit makes me wild to think of that fellow masquerading as a German,and up to who knows what mischief—mischief enough to make himwant to get rid of any one. I'm keen about the sea, and Ithink they're apt to be a bit slack at home," he continuedinconsequently. "Those Admiralty chaps want waking up. Anyway, asfar as I'm concerned, it's quite natural that I should look him upagain."

"Quite," I agreed; "you parted friends, and they may bedelighted to see you. You'll have plenty to talk about."

"H'm," said Davies, withered into silence by the "they". "Hullo!I say, do you know it's three o'clock? How the time has gone! And,by Jove! I believe the fog's lifting."

I returned, with a shock, to the present, to the weeping walls,the discoloured deal table, the ghastly breakfast litter—allthe visible symbols of the life I had pledged myself to.Disillusionment was making rapid headway when Davies returned, andsaid, with energy:

"What do you say to starting for Kiel at once? The fog's going,and there's a breeze from the sou'-west."

"Now?" I protested. "Why, it'll mean sailing all night, won'tit?"

"Oh, no," said Davies. "Not with luck."

"Why, it's dark at seven!"

"Yes, but it's only twenty-five miles. I know it's not exactly afair wind, but we shall lie closehauled most of the way. The glassis falling, and we ought to take this chance."

To argue about winds with Davies was hopeless, and the upshotwas that we started lunchless. A pale sun was flickering out ofmasses of racing vapour, and through delicate vistas between themthe fair land of Schleswig now revealed and now withdrew her prettyface, as though smiling adieux to her faithlesscourtiers.

The clank of our chain brought up Bartels to the deck of theJohannes, rubbing his eyes and pulling round his throat agrey shawl, which gave him a comical likeness to a lodging-houselandlady receiving the milk in morning déshabillé.

"We're off, Bartels," said Davies, without looking up from hiswork. "See you at Kiel, I hope."

"You are always in a hurry, captain," bleated the old man,shaking his head. "You should wait till to-morrow. The sky is notgood, and it will be dark before you are off Eckenförde."

Davies laughed, and very soon his mentor's sad little figure waslost in haze.

That was a curious evening. Dusk soon fell, and the devil made adetermined effort to unman me; first, with the scrambled tea whichwas the tardy substitute for an orderly lunch, then with the newand nauseous duty of filling the side-lights, which meant squattingin the fo'c'sle to inhale paraffin and dabble in lamp-black;lastly, with an all-round attack on my nerves as the night fell onour frail little vessel, pitching on her precarious way throughdriving mist. In a sense I think I went through the same sort ofmental crisis as when I sat upon my portmanteau at Flensburg. Themain issue was not seriously in question, for I had signed on inthe Dulcibella for good or ill; but in doing so I had outrunmyself, and still wanted an outlook, a mood suited to theenterprise, proof against petty discouragements. Not for the firsttime a sense of the ludicrous came to my assistance, as I sawmyself fretting in London under my burden of self-imposed woes,nicely weighing that insidious invitation, and stepping finallyinto the snare with the dignity due to my importance; kidnapped asneatly as ever a peaceful clerk was kidnapped by a lawlesspress-gang, and, in the end, finding as the arch-conspirator aguileless and warm-hearted friend, who called me clever, lodged mein a cell, and blandly invited me to talk German to the purpose, ashe was aiming at a little secret service on the high seas. Close inthe train of Humour came Romance, veiling her face, but I knew itwas the rustle of her robes that I heard in the foam beneath me; Iknew that it was she who handed me the cup of sparkling wine andbade me drink and be merry. Strange to me though it was, I knew thetaste when it touched my lips. It was not that bastard concoction Ihad tasted in the pseudo-Bohemias of Soho; it was not the showy butinsipid beverage I should have drunk my fill of at Morven Lodge; itwas the purest of her pure vintages, instilling the ancientinspiration which, under many guises, quickens thousands of betterbrains than mine, but whose essence is always the same; the gaypursuit of a perilous quest. Then and there I tried to clinch thematter and keep that mood. In the main I think I succeeded, thoughI had many lapses.

For the present my veins tingled with the draught. The windhumming into the mainsail, the ghostly wave-crests riding up out ofthe void, whispered a low thrilling chorus in praise of adventure.Potent indeed must the spell have been, for, in reality, that firstnight sail teemed with terrors for me. It is true that it beganwell, for the haze dispersed, as Davies had prophesied, and BulkPoint Lighthouse guided us safely to the mouth of Kiel Fiord. Itwas during this stage that, crouching together aft, our pipe-bowlsglowing sympathetically, we returned to the problem before us; forwe had shot out on our quest with volcanic precipitation, leavingmuch to be discussed. I gleaned a few more facts, though Idispelled no doubts. Davies had only seen the Dollmanns on theiryacht, where father and daughter were living for the time. Theirvilla at Norderney, and their home life there, were unknown to him,though he had landed once at the harbour himself. Further, he hadheard vaguely of a stepmother, absent at Hamburg. They were to havejoined her on their arrival at that city, which, be it noted,stands a long way up the Elbe, forty miles and more above Cuxhaven,the town at the mouth.

The exact arrangement made on the day before the fatal voyagewas that the two yachts should meet in the evening at Cuxhaven andproceed up the river together. Then, in the ordinary course, Davieswould have parted company at Brunsbüttel (fifteen miles up), whichis the western terminus of the ship canal to the Baltic. Such atleast had been his original intention; but, putting two and twotogether, I gathered that latterly, and perhaps unconfessed tohimself, his resolve had weakened, and that he would have followedthe Medusa to Hamburg, or indeed the end of the world,impelled by the same motive that, contrary to all his tastes andprinciples, had induced him to abandon his life in the islands andundertake the voyage at all. But on that point he was immovablyreticent, and all I could conclude was that the strangecross-current connected with Dollmann's daughter had given himcruel pain and had clouded his judgement to distraction, but thathe now was prepared to forget or ignore it, and steer a settledcourse.

The facts I elicited raised several important questions. Was itnot known by this time that he and his yacht had survived? Davieswas convinced that it was not. "He may have waited at Cuxhaven, orinquired at the lock at Brunsbüttel," he said. "But there was noneed, for I tell you the thing was a certainty. If I had struck andstuck on that outer bank, as it was a hundred to one Ishould do, the yacht would have broken up in three minutes. Bartelswould never have seen me, and couldn't have got to me if he had. Noone would have seen me. And nothing whatever has happened since toshow that they know I'm alive."

"They," I suggested. "Who are 'they'? Who are our adversaries?"If Dollmann were an accredited agent of the GermanAdmiralty—— But, no, it was incredible that the murderof a young Englishman should be connived at in modern days by afriendly and civilised government! Yet, if he were not such anagent, the whole theory fell to the ground.

"I believe," said Davies, "that Dollmann did it off his own bat,and beyond that I can't see. And I don't know that it matters atpresent. Alive or dead we're doing nothing wrong, and have nothingto be ashamed of."

"I think it matters a good deal," I objected. "Who will beinterested in our resurrection, and how are we to go to work,openly or secretly? I suppose we shall keep out of the way as muchas we can?"

"As for keeping out of the way," said Davies, jerkily, as hepeered to windward under the foresail, "we must pass theship canal; that's a public highway, where anyone can see you.After that there won't be much difficulty. Wait till you see theplace!" He gave a low, contented laugh, which would have frozen mymarrow yesterday. "By the way, that reminds me," he added; "we muststop at Kiel for the inside of a day and lay in a lot of stores. Wewant to be independent of the shore." I said nothing. Independenceof the shore in a seven-tonner in October! What an end to aimat!

About nine o'clock we weathered the point, entered Kiel Fiord,and began a dead beat to windward of seven miles to the head of itwhere Kiel lies. Hitherto, save for the latent qualms concerning mytotal helplessness if anything happened to Davies, interest andexcitement had upheld me well. My alarms only began when I thoughtthem nearly over. Davies had frequently urged me to turn in andsleep, and I went so far as to go below and coil myself up on thelee sofa with my pencil and diary. Suddenly there was a flappingand rattling on deck, and I began to slide on to the floor. "What'shappened?" I cried, in a panic, for there was Davies stooping in atthe cabin door.

"Nothing," he said, chafing his hands for warmth; "I'm onlygoing about. Hand me the glasses, will you? There's a steamerahead. I say, if you really don't want to turn in, you might makesome soup. Just let's look at the chart." He studied it withmaddening deliberation, while I wondered how near the steamer was,and what the yacht was doing meanwhile.

"I suppose it's not really necessary for anyone to be at thehelm?" I remarked.

"Oh, she's all right for a minute," he said, without looking up."Two—one and a half—one—lights in line sou'-westby west—got a match?" He expended two, and tumbled upstairsagain.

"You don't want me, do you?" I shouted after him.

"No, but come up when you've put the kettle on. It's a prettybeat up the fiord. Lovely breeze."

His legs disappeared. A sort of buoyant fatalism possessed me asI finished my notes and pored over the stove. It upheld me, too,when I went on deck and watched the "pretty beat", whose prettinesswas mainly due to the crowd of fog-bound shipping—steamers,smacks, and sailing-vessels—now once more on the move in theconfined fairway of the fiord, their baleful eyes of red, green, oryellow, opening and shutting, brightening and fading; whileshore-lights and anchor-lights added to my bewilderment, and athrobbing of screws filled the air like the distant roar of Londonstreets. In fact, every time we spun round for our dart across thefiord I felt like a rustic matron gathering her skirts for thetransit of the Strand on a busy night. Davies, however, was thestreet arab who zigzags under the horses' feet unscathed; and allthe time he discoursed placidly on the simplicity and safety ofnight-sailing if only you are careful, obeying rules, and burntgood lights. As we were nearing the hot glow in the sky thatdenoted Kiel we passed a huge scintillating bulk moored inmid-stream. "Warships," he murmured, ecstatically.

At one o'clock we anchored off the town.

CHAPTER X.
His Chance

"I say, Davies," I said, "how long do you think this trip willlast? I've only got a month's leave."

We were standing at slanting desks in the Kiel post-office,Davies scratching diligently at his letter-card, and I staringfeebly at mine.

"By Jove!" said Davies, with a start of dismay; "that's onlythree weeks more; I never thought of that. You couldn't manage toget an extension, could you?"

"I can write to the chief," I admitted; "but where's the answerto come to? We're better without an address, I suppose."

"There's Cuxhaven," reflected Davies; "but that's too near, andthere's—but we don't want to be tied down to landinganywhere. I tell you what: say 'Post Office, Norderney', just yourname, not the yacht's. We may get there and be able to callfor letters." The casual character of our adventure never struck memore strongly than then.

"Is that what you're doing?" I asked.

"Oh, I shan't be having important letters like you."

"But what are you saying?"

"Oh, just that we're having a splendid cruise, and are on ourway home."

The notion tickled me, and I said the same in my home letter,adding that we were looking for a friend of Davies's who would beable to show us some sport. I wrote a line, too, to my chief(unaware of the gravity of the step I was taking) saying it waspossible that I might have to apply for longer leave, as I hadimportant business to transact in Germany, and asking him kindly towrite to the same address. Then we shouldered our parcels andresumed our business.

Two full dinghy-loads of stores we ferried to theDulcibella, chief among which were two immense cans ofpetroleum, constituting our reserves of heat and light, and a sackof flour. There were spare ropes and blocks, too; German charts ofexcellent quality; cigars and many weird brands of sausage andtinned meats, besides a miscellany of oddments, some of which onlyserved in the end to slake my companion's craving for jettison.Clothes were my own chief care, for, freely as I had purged it atFlensburg, my wardrobe was still very unsuitable, and I had alreadyirretrievably damaged two faultless pairs of white flannels. ("Weshall be able to throw them overboard," said Davies, hopefully.) SoI bought a great pair of seaboots of the country, felt-lined andwooden-soled, and both of us got a number of rough woollen garments(as worn by the local fishermen), breeches, jerseys, helmets,gloves; all of a colour chosen to harmonise with paraffin stainsand anchor mud.

The same evening we were taking our last look at the Baltic,sailing past warships and groups of idle yachts battened down fortheir winter's sleep; while the noble shores of the fiord, with itsvillas embowered in copper foliage, grew dark and dim above us.

We rounded the last headland, steered for a galaxy of colouredlights, tumbled down our sails, and came to under the colossalgates of the Holtenau lock. That these would open to such aninfinitesimal suppliant seemed inconceivable. But open they did,with ponderous majesty, and our tiny hull was lost in the womb of alock designed to float the largest battleships. I thought ofBoulter's on a hot August Sunday, and wondered if I really was thesame peevish dandy who had jostled and sweltered there with thenoisy co*ckney throng a month ago. There was a blaze of electricityoverhead, but utter silence till a solitary cloaked figure hailedus and called for the captain. Davies ran up a ladder, disappearedwith the cloaked figure, and returned crumpling a paper into hispocket. It lies before me now, and sets forth, under the stamp ofthe Königliches Zollamt, that, in consideration of the sum of tenmarks for dues and four for tonnage, an imperial tug would tow thevessel Dulcibella (master A. H. Davies) through the KaiserWilhelm canal from Holtenau to Brunsbüttel. Magnificentcondescension! I blush when I look at this yellow document andremember the stately courtesy of the great lock-gates; for thesleepy officials of the Königliches Zollamt little knew what aninsidious little viper they were admitting into the imperial bosomat the light toll of fourteen shillings.

"Seems cheap," said Davies, joining me, "doesn't it? They've aregular tariff on tonnage, same for yachts as for liners. We startat four to-morrow with a lot of other boats. I wonder if Bartels ishere."

The same silence reigned, but invisible forces were at work. Theinner gates opened and we prised ourselves through into a capaciousbasin, where lay moored side by side a flotilla of sailing vesselsof various sizes. Having made fast alongside a vacant space ofquay, we had our dinner, and then strolled out with cigars to lookfor the Johannes. We found her wedged among a stack ofgalliots, and her skipper sitting primly below before a blazingstove, reading his Bible through spectacles. He produced a bottleof schnapps and some very small and hard pears, while Daviestwitted him mercilessly about his false predictions.

"The sky was not good," was all he said, beaming indulgently athis incorrigible young friend.

Before parting for the night it was arranged that next morningwe should lash alongside the Johannes when the flotilla wasmarshalled for the tow through the canal.

"Karl shall steer for us both," he said, "and we will stay warmin the cabin."

The scheme was carried out, not without much confusion and lossof paint, in the small hours of a dark and drizzling morning.Boisterous little tugs sorted us into parties, and half lost underthe massive bulwarks of the Johannes we were carried offinto a black inane. If any doubt remained as to the significance ofour change of cruising-grounds, dawn dispelled it. View there wasnone from the deck of the Dulcibella; it was only bystanding on the mainboom that you could see over the embankments tothe vast plain of Holstein, grey and monotonous under a pall ofmist. The soft scenery of the Schleswig coast was a baseless dreamof the past, and a cold penetrating rain added the last touch ofdramatic completeness to the staging of the new act.

For two days we travelled slowly up the mighty waterway that isthe strategic link between the two seas of Germany. Broad andstraight, massively embanked, lit by electricity at night till itis lighter than many a great London street; traversed by great warvessels, rich merchantmen, and humble coasters alike, it is asymbol of the new and mighty force which, controlled by the geniusof statesmen and engineers, is thrusting the empire irresistiblyforward to the goal of maritime greatness.

"Isn't it splendid?" said Davies. "He's a fine fellow, thatemperor."

Karl was the shock-headed, stout-limbed boy of about sixteen,who constituted the whole crew of the Johannes, and was asdirty as his master was clean. I felt a certain envious reverencefor this unprepossessing youth, seeing in him a much more efficientcounterpart of myself; but how he and his little master evermanaged to work their ungainly vessel was a miracle I neverunderstood. Phlegmatically impervious to rain and cold, he steeredthe Johannes down the long grey reaches in the wake of thetug, while we and Bartels held snug gatherings down below,sometimes in his cabin, sometimes in ours. The heating arrangementsof the latter began to be a subject of serious concern. We finallydid the only logical thing, and brought the kitchen-range into theparlour, fixing the Rippingille stove on the forward end of thecabin table, where it could warm as well as cook for us. As anornament it was monstrous, and the taint of oil which it introducedwas a disgusting drawback; but, after all, the great thing—asDavies said—is to be comfortable, and after that to beclean.

Davies held long consultations with Bartels, who was thoroughlyat home in the navigation of the sands we were bound for, his ownboat being a type of the very craft which ply in them. I shall notforget the moment when it first dawned on him that his youngfriend's curiosity was practical; for he had thought that our goalwas his own beloved Hamburg, queen of cities, a place to see anddie.

"It is too late," he wailed. "You do not know the Nord See as Ido."

"Oh, nonsense, Bartels, it's quite safe."

"Safe! And have I not found you fast on Hohenhörn, in a storm,with your rudder broken? God was good to you then, my son."

"Yes, but it wasn't my f——" Davies checked himself."We're going home. There's nothing in that." Bartels became sadlyresigned.

"It is good that you have a friend," was his last word on thesubject; but all the same he always glanced at me with a ratherdoubtful eye. As to Davies and myself, our friendship developedquickly on certain limited lines, the chief obstacle, as I wellknow now, being his reluctance to talk about the personal side ofour quest.

On the other hand, I spoke about my own life and interests, withan unsparing discernment, of which I should have been incapable amonth ago, and in return I gained the key to his own character. Itwas devotion to the sea, wedded to a fire of pent-up patriotismstruggling incessantly for an outlet in strenuous physicalexpression; a humanity, born of acute sensitiveness to his ownlimitations, only adding fuel to the flame. I learnt for the firsttime now that in early youth he had failed for the navy, the firstof several failures in his career. "And I can't settle down toanything else," he said. "I read no end about it, and yet I am auseless outsider. All I've been able to do is to potter about insmall boats; but it's all been wasted till this chance came.I'm afraid you'll not understand how I feel about it; but at last,for once in a way, I see a chance of being useful."

"There ought to be chances for chaps like you," I said, "withoutthe accident of a job such as this."

"Oh, as long as I get it, what matter? But I know what you mean.There must be hundreds of chaps like me—I know a good manymyself—who know our coasts like a book—shoals, creeks,tides, rocks; there's nothing in it, it's only practice. They oughtto make some use of us as a naval reserve. They tried to once, butit fizzled out, and nobody really cares. And what's the result?Using every man of what reserves we've got, there's about enough toman the fleet on a war footing, and no more. They've tinkered withfishermen, and merchant sailors, and yachting hands, but everyoneof them ought to be got hold of; and the colonies, too. Is therethe ghost of a doubt that if war broke out there'd be wild appealsfor volunteers, aimless cadging, hurry, confusion, waste? My ownidea is that we ought to go much further, and train everyable-bodied man for a couple of years as a sailor. Army? Oh, Isuppose you'd have to give them the choice. Not that I know or caremuch about the Army, though to listen to people talk you'd think itreally mattered as the Navy matters. We're a maritimenation—we've grown by the sea and live by it; if we losecommand of it we starve. We're unique in that way, just as our hugeempire, only linked by the sea, is unique. And yet, read Brassey,Dilke, and those Naval Annuals, and see what mountains ofapathy and conceit have had to be tackled. It's not the people'sfault. We've been safe so long, and grown so rich, that we'veforgotten what we owe it to. But there's no excuse for thoseblockheads of statesmen, as they call themselves, who are paid tosee things as they are. They have to go to an American to learntheir A B C, and it's only when kicked and punched by civilianagitators, a mere handful of men who get sneered at for theirpains, that they wake up, do some work, point proudly to it, and goto sleep again, till they get another kick. By Jove! we want a manlike this Kaiser, who doesn't wait to be kicked, but works like anigg*r for his country, and sees ahead."

"We're improving, aren't we?"

"Oh, of course, we are! But it's a constant uphill fight; and wearen't ready. They talk of a two-power standard——" Heplunged away into regions where space forbids me to follow him.This is only a sample of many similar conversations that weafterwards held, always culminating in the burning question ofGermany. Far from including me and the Foreign Office among histargets for vague invective, he had a profound respect for mysagacity and experience as a member of that institution; a respectwhich embarrassed me not a little when I thought of myprécis writing and cigarette-smoking, my dancing, and mydining. But I did know something of Germany, and could satisfy histireless questioning with a certain authority. He used to listenrapt while I described her marvellous awakening in the lastgeneration, under the strength and wisdom of her rulers; herintense patriotic ardour; her seething industrial activity, and,most potent of all, the forces that are moulding modern Europe, herdream of a colonial empire, entailing her transformation from aland-power to a sea-power. Impregnably based on vast territorialresources which we cannot molest, the dim instincts of her people,not merely directed but anticipated by the genius of her rulinghouse, our great trade rivals of the present, our great naval rivalof the future, she grows, and strengthens, and waits, an ever moreformidable factor in the future of our delicate network of empire,sensitive as gossamer to external shocks, and radiating from anisland whose commerce is its life, and which depends even for itsdaily ration of bread on the free passage of the seas.

"And we aren't ready for her," Davies would say; "we don't lookher way. We have no naval base in the North Sea, and no North SeaFleet. Our best battleships are too deep in draught for North Seawork. And, to crown all, we were asses enough to give herHeligoland, which commands her North Sea coast. And supposing shecollars Holland; isn't there some talk of that?"

That would lead me to describe the swollen ambitions of thePan-Germanic party, and its ceaseless intrigues to promote theabsorption of Austria, Switzerland, and—a direct and flagrantmenace to ourselves—of Holland.

"I don't blame them," said Davies, who, for all his patriotism,had not a particle of racial spleen in his composition. "I don'tblame them; their Rhine ceases to be German just when it begins tobe most valuable. The mouth is Dutch, and would give themmagnificent ports just opposite British shores. We can'ttalk about conquest and grabbing. We've collared a fine share ofthe world, and they've every right to be jealous. Let them hate us,and say so; it'll teach us to buck up; and that's what reallymatters."

In these talks there occurred a singular contact of minds. Itwas very well for me to spin sonorous generalities, but I had nevertill now dreamed of being so vulgar as to translate them intopractice. I had always detested the meddlesome alarmist, who veilsignorance under noisiness, and for ever wails his chant oflugubrious pessimism. To be thrown with Davies was to receive ashock of enlightenment; for here, at least, was a specimen of thebreed who exacted respect. It is true he made use of the usualjargon, interlarding his stammering sentences (sometimes, when hewas excited, with the oddest effect) with the conventionalcatchwords of the journalist and platform speaker. But these werebut accidents; for he seemed to have caught his innermostconviction from the very soul of the sea itself. An armchair criticis one thing, but a sunburnt, brine-burnt zealot smarting under apersonal discontent, athirst for a means, however tortuous, ofcontributing his effort to the great cause, the maritime supremacyof Britain, that was quite another thing. He drew inspiration fromthe very wind and spray. He communed with his tiller, I believe,and marshalled his figures with its help. To hear him talk was tofeel a current of clarifying air blustering into a close club-room,where men bandy ineffectual platitudes, and mumble old shibboleths,and go away and do nothing.

In our talk about policy and strategy we were Bismarcks andRodneys, wielding nations and navies; and, indeed, I have no doubtthat our fancy took extravagant flights sometimes. In plain fact wewere merely two young gentlemen in a seven-ton pleasure boat, witha taste for amateur hydrography and police duty combined. Not thatDavies ever doubted. Once set on the road he gripped his purposewith child-like faith and tenacity. It was his "chance".

CHAPTER XI.
The Pathfinders

In the late afternoon of the second day our flotilla reached theElbe at Brunsbüttel and ranged up in the inner basin, while a bigliner, whimpering like a fretful baby, was tenderly nursed into thelock. During the delay Davies left me in charge, and bolted offwith an oil-can and a milk-jug. An official in uniform was passingalong the quay from vessel to vessel countersigning papers. I wentup to meet him with our receipt for dues, which he signedcarelessly. Then he paused and muttered "Dooltzhibella,"scratching his head, "that was the name. English?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Little lust-cutter, that is so; there was an inquiry foryou."

"Whom from?"

"A friend of yours from a big barge-yacht."

"Oh, I know; she went on to Hamburg, I suppose?"

"No such luck, captain; she was outward bound."

What did the man mean? He seemed to be vastly amused bysomething.

"When was this—about three weeks ago?" I asked,indifferently.

"Three weeks? It was the day before yesterday. What a pity tomiss him by so little!" He chuckled and winked.

"Did he leave any message?" I asked.

"It was a lady who inquired," whispered the fellow, snigg*ring."Oh, really," I said, beginning to feel highly absurd, but keenlycurious. "And she inquired about the Dulcibella?"

"Herrgott! she was difficult to satisfy! Stood over me while Isearched the books. 'A very little one,' she kept saying, and 'Areyou sure all the names are here?' I saw her into her kleine Boot,and she rowed away in the rain. No, she left no message. It wasdirty weather for a young Fräulein to be out alone in. Ach! she wassafe enough, though. To see her crossing the ebb in a chop of tidewas a treat."

"And the yacht went on down the river? Where was she boundto?"

"How do I know? Bremen, Wilhelmshaven, Emden—somewhere inthe North Sea; too far for you."

"I don't know about that," said I, bravely.

"Ach! you will not follow in that? Are not you bound toHamburg?"

"We can change our plans. It seems a pity to have missedthem."

"Think twice, captain, there are plenty of pretty girls inHamburg. But you English will do anything. Well, viel Glück!"

He moved on, chuckling, to the next boat. Davies soon returnedwith his cans and an armful of dark, rye loaves, just in time, for,the liner being through, the flotilla was already beginning tojostle into the lock and Bartels was growing impatient.

"They'll last ten days," he said, as we followed the throng,still clinging like a barnacle to the side of the Johannes.We spent the few minutes while the lock was emptied in a farewelltalk to Bartels. Karl had hitched their main halyards on to thewindlass and was grinding at it in an acharnement ofindustry, his shock head jerking and his grubby face perspiring.Then the lock-gates opened; and so, in a Babel of shouting, whiningof blocks, and creaking of spars, our whole company was split outinto the dingy bosom of the Elbe. The Johannes gathered wayunder wind and tide and headed for midstream. A last shake of thehand, and Bartels reluctantly slipped the head-rope and we driftedapart. "Gute Reise! Gute Reise!" It was no time for regretfulgazing, for the flood-tide was sweeping us up and out, and it wasnot until we had set the foresail, edged into a shallow bight, andlet go our anchor, that we had leisure to think of him again; butby that time his and the other craft were shades in the murkyeast.

We swung close to a glacis of smooth blue mud whichsloped up to a weed-grown dyke; behind lay the same flat country,colourless, humid; and opposite us, two miles away, scarcelyvisible in the deepening twilight, ran the outline of a similarshore. Between rolled the turgid Elbe. "The Styx flowing throughTartarus," I thought to myself, recalling some of our Balticanchorages.

I told my news to Davies as soon as the anchor was down,instinctively leaving the sex of the inquirer to the last, as myinformant had done.

"The Medusa called yesterday?" he interrupted. "Andoutward bound? That's a rum thing. Why didn't he inquire when hewas going up?"

"It was a lady," and I drily retailed the official's story, verybusy with a deck-broom the while. "We're all square now, aren'twe?" I ended. "I'll go below and light the stove."

Davies had been engaged in fixing up the riding-light. When Ilast saw him he was still so engaged, but motionless, the lanternunder his left arm and his right hand grasping the forestay and thehalf-knotted lanyard; his eyes staring fixedly down the river, astrange look in his face, half exultant, half perplexed. When hejoined me and spoke he seemed to be concluding a difficultargument.

"Anyway, it proves," he said, "that the Medusa has goneback to Norderney. That's the main thing."

"Probably," I agreed, "but let's sum up all we know. First, it'scertain that nobody we've met as yet has any suspicion ofus——"

"I told you he did it off his own bat," threw in Davies.

"Or, secondly, of him. If he's what you think it's notknown here."

"I can't help that."

"Thirdly, he inquires for you on his way back fromHamburg, three weeks after the event. It doesn't look as if hethought he had disposed of you—it doesn't look as if he hadmeant to dispose of you. He sends his daughter, too; acurious proceeding under the circ*mstances. Perhaps it's all amistake."

"It's not a mistake," said Davies, half to himself. "Butdid he send her? He'd have sent one of his men. He can't beon board at all."

This was a new light.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He must have left the yacht when he got to Hamburg; some otherdevil's work, I suppose. She's being sailed back now, and passinghere——"

"Oh, I see! It's a private supplementary inquiry."

"That's a long name to call it."

"Would the girl sail back alone with the crew?"

"She's used to the sea—and perhaps she isn't alone. Therewas that stepmother—— But it doesn't make a ha'porth ofdifference to our plans; we'll start on the ebb to-morrowmorning."

We were busier than usual that night, reckoning stores, tidyinglockers, and securing movables. "We must economise," said Davies,for all the world as though we were castaways on a raft. "It's awretched thing to have to land somewhere to buy oil," was afavourite observation of his.

Before getting to sleep I was made to recognise a new factor inthe conditions of navigation, now that the tideless Baltic was leftbehind us. A strong current was sluicing past our sides, and at theeleventh hour I was turned out, clad in pyjamas and oilskins (ahorrible combination), to assist in running out a kedge or spareanchor.

"What's kedging-off?" I asked, when we were tucked up again."Oh, it's when you run aground; you have to—but you'll soonlearn all about it." I steeled my heart for the morrow.

So behold us, then, at eight o'clock on October 5, standing downthe river towards the field of our first labours. It is fifteenmiles to the mouth; drab, dreary miles like the dullest reaches ofthe lower Thames; but scenery was of no concern to us, and asouth-westerly breeze blowing out of a grey sky kept us constantlyon the verge of reefing. The tide as it gathered strength swept usdown with a force attested by the speed with which buoys came insight, nodded above us and passed, each boiling in its eddy ofdirty foam. I scarcely noticed at first—so calm was thewater, and so regular were the buoys, like milestones along aroad—that the northern line of coast was rapidly receding andthat the "river" was coming to be but a belt of deep water skirtinga vast estuary, three—seven—ten miles broad, till itmerged in open sea.

"Why, we're at sea!" I suddenly exclaimed, "after an hour'ssailing!"

"Just discovered that?" said Davies, laughing.

"You said it was fifteen miles," I complained.

"So it is, till we reach this coast at Cuxhaven; but I supposeyou may say we're at sea; of course that's all sand over there tostarboard. Look! some of it's showing already."

He pointed into the north. Looking more attentively I noticedthat outside the line of buoys patches of the surface heaved andworked; in one or two places streaks and circles of white wereforming; in the midst of one such circle a sleek mauve hump hadrisen, like the back of a sleeping whale. I saw that an old spellwas enthralling Davies as his eye travelled away to the blankhorizon. He scanned it all with a critical eagerness, too, as onewho looks for a new meaning in an old friend's face. Something ofhis zest was communicated to me, and stilled the shuddering thrillthat had seized me. The protecting land was still a comfortingneighbour; but our severance with it came quickly. The tide whirledus down, and our straining canvas aiding it, we were soon offCuxhaven, which crouched so low behind its mighty dyke, that ofsome of its houses only the chimneys were visible. Then, a mile orso on, the shore sharpened to a point like a claw, where theinnocent dyke became a long, low fort, with some great guns peepingover; then of a sudden it ceased, retreating into the far south ina dim perspective of groins and dunes.

We spun out into the open and leant heavily over to the nowunobstructed wind. The yacht rose and sank to a little swell, butmy first impression was one of wonder at the calmness of the sea,for the wind blew fresh and free from horizon to horizon.

"Why, it's all sand there now, and we're under the lee ofit," said Davies, with an enthusiastic sweep of his hand over thesea on our left or port hand. "That's our hunting ground."

"What are we going to do?" I inquired.

"Pick up Sticker's Gat," was the reply. "It ought to be nearBuoy K."

A red buoy with a huge K on it soon came into view. Daviespeered over to port.

"Just pull up the centreboard, will you?" he remarkedabstractedly, adding, "and hand me up the glasses as you are downthere."

"Never mind the glasses. I've got it now; come to themain-sheet," was the next remark.

He put down the helm and headed the yacht straight for thetroubled and discoloured expanse which covered the submerged sands.A "sleeping whale", with a light surf splashing on it, was right inour path.

"Stand by the lead, will you?" said Davies, politely. "I'llmanage the sheets, it's a dead beat in. Ready about!"

The wind was in our teeth now, and for a crowded half-hour wewormed ourselves forward by ever-shortening tacks into the sinuousrecesses of a channel which threaded the shallows westward. I kneltin a tangle of line, and, under the hazy impression that somethingvery critical was going on, plied the lead furiously, bumping andsplashing myself, and shouting out the depths, which lessenedsteadily, with a great sense of the importance of my function.Davies never seemed to listen, but tacked on imperturbably,juggling with the tiller, the sheets, and the chart, in a way thatmade one giddy to look at. For all our zeal we seemed to be makingvery slow progress.

"It's no use, tide's too strong; we must chance it," he said atlast.

"Chance what?" I wondered to myself. Our tacks suddenly began togrow longer, and the depths, which I registered, shallower. Allwent well for some time though, and we made better progress. Thencame a longer reach than usual.

"Two and a half—two—one and ahalf—one—only five feet," I gasped, reproachfully. Thewater was growing thick and frothy.

"It doesn't matter if we do," said Davies, thinking aloud."There's an eddy here, and it's a pity to waste it—readyabout! Back the jib!"

But it was too late. The yacht answered but faintly to the helm,stopped, and heeled heavily over, wallowing and grinding. Davieshad the mainsail down in a twinkling; it half smothered me as Icrouched on the lee-side among my tangled skeins of line, scaredand helpless. I crawled out from the folds, and saw him standing bythe mast in a reverie.

"It's not much use," he said, "on a falling tide, but we'll trykedging-off. Pay that warp out while I run out the kedge."

Like lightning he had cast off the dinghy's painter, tumbled thekedge-anchor and himself into the dinghy, pulled out fifty yardsinto the deeper water, and heaved out the anchor.

"Now haul," he shouted.

I hauled, beginning to see what kedging-off meant.

"Steady on! Don't sweat yourself," said Davies, jumping aboardagain.

"It's coming," I spluttered, triumphantly.

"The warp is, the yacht isn't; you're dragging the anchor home.Never mind, she'll lie well here. Let's have lunch."

The yacht was motionless, and the water round her visibly lower.Petulant waves slapped against her sides, but, scattered as mysenses were, I realised that there was no vestige of danger. Roundus the whole face of the waters was changing from moment to moment,whitening in some places, yellowing in others, where breadths ofsand began to be exposed. Close on our right the channel we hadleft began to look like a turbid little river; and I understood whyour progress had been so slow when I saw its current racing back tomeet the Elbe. Davies was already below, laying out a more thanusually elaborate lunch, in high content of mind.

"Lies quiet, doesn't she?" he remarked. "If you do want asit-down lunch, there's nothing like running aground for it. And,anyhow, we're as handy for work here as anywhere else. You'llsee."

Like most landsmen I had a wholesome prejudice against runningaground, so that my mentor's turn for breezy paradox was at firstrather exasperating. After lunch the large-scale chart of theestuaries was brought down, and we pored over it together, mappingout work for the next few days. There is no need to tire thegeneral reader with its intricacies, nor is there space toreproduce it for the benefit of the instructed reader. For bothclasses the general map should be sufficient, taken with thelarge-scale fragment [See Chart A]which gives a fair example of the region in detail. It will be seenthat the three broad fairways of the Jade, Weser, and Elbe split upthe sands into two main groups. The westernmost of these issymmetrical in outline, an acute-angled triangle, very like a sharpsteel-shod pike, if you imagine the peninsula from which it springsto be the wooden haft. The other is a huge congeries of banks, itsbase resting on the Hanover coast, two of its sides tolerably cleanand even, and the third, that facing the north-west, ribboned andlacerated by the fury of the sea, which has eaten out deep cavitiesand struck hungry tentacles far into the interior. The wholeresembles an inverted E, or, better still, a rude fork, on whosethree deadly prongs, the Scharhorn Reef, the Knecht Sand, and theTegeler Flat, as on the no less deadly point of the pike, many agood ship splinters herself in northerly gales. Following thissimile, the Hohenhörn bank, where Davies was wrecked, is one ofthose that lie between the upper and middle prongs.

Our business was to explore the Pike and the Fork and thechannels which ramify through them. I use the general word"channel", but in fact they differ widely in character, and arecalled in German by various names: Balje, Gat, Loch, Diep, Rinne.For my purpose I need only divide them into two sorts—thosewhich have water in them at all states of the tide, and those whichhave not, which dry off, that is, either wholly or partly atlow-tide.

Davies explained that the latter would take most learning, andwere to be our chief concern, because they were the"through-routes"—the connecting links between the estuaries.You can always detect them on the chart by rows of little Y-shapedstrokes denoting "booms", that is to say, poles or saplings fixedin the sand to mark the passage. The strokes, of course, are onlyconventional signs, and do not correspond in the least toindividual "booms", which are far too numerous and complex to beindicated accurately on a chart, even of the largest scale. Thesame applies to the course of the channels themselves, whose minormeanderings cannot be reproduced.

It was on the edge of one of these tidal swatchways that theyacht was now lying. It is called Sticker's Gat, and you cannotmiss it [See Chart A] if you carryyour eye westward along our course from Cuxhaven. It was, so Daviestold me, the last and most intricate stage of the "short cut" whichthe Medusa had taken on that memorable day—a stage hehimself had never reached. Discussion ended, we went on deck,Davies arming himself with a notebook, binoculars, and theprismatic compass, whose use—to map the angles of thechannels—was at last apparent. This is what I saw when weemerged.

CHAPTER XII.
My Initiation

The yacht lay with a very slight heel (thanks to a pair of smallbilge-keels on her bottom) in a sort of trough she had dug forherself, so that she was still ringed with a few inches of water,as it were with a moat.

For miles in every direction lay a desert of sand. To the northit touched the horizon, and was only broken by the blue dot ofNeuerk Island and its lighthouse. To the east it seemed also tostretch to infinity, but the smoke of a steamer showed where it waspierced by the stream of the Elbe. To the south it ran up to thepencil-line of the Hanover shore. Only to the west was its outlinebroken by any vestiges of the sea it had risen from. There it wasastir with crawling white filaments, knotted confusedly at one spotin the north-west, whence came a sibilant murmur like the hissingof many snakes. Desert as I call it, it was not entirelyfeatureless. Its colour varied from light fawn, where the highestlevels had dried in the wind, to brown or deep violet, where it wasstill wet, and slate-grey where patches of mud soiled its cleanbosom. Here and there were pools of water, smitten into ripples bythe impotent wind; here and there it was speckled by shells andseaweed. And close to us, beginning to bend away towards thathissing knot in the north-west, wound our poor little channel,mercilessly exposed as a stagnant, muddy ditch with scarcely a footof water, not deep enough to hide our small kedge-anchor, whichperked up one fluke in impudent mockery. The dull, hard sky, thewind moaning in the rigging as though crying in despair for a preythat had escaped it, made the scene inexpressibly forlorn.

Davies scanned it with gusto for a moment, climbed to a point ofvantage on the boom, and swept his glasses to and fro along thecourse of the channel.

"Fairly well boomed," he said, meditatively, "but one or two arevery much out. By Jove! that's a tricky bend there." He took abearing with the compass, made a note or two, and sprang with avigorous leap down on to the sand.

This, I may say, was the only way of "going ashore" that hereally liked. We raced off as fast as our clumsy sea-boots wouldlet us, and followed up the course of our channel to the west,reconnoitring the road we should have to follow when the tiderose.

"The only way to learn a place like this," he shouted, "is tosee it at low water. The banks are dry then, and the channels areplain. Look at that boom"—he stopped and pointedcontemptuously—"it's all out of place. I suppose thechannel's shifted there. It's just at an important bend too. If youtook it as a guide when the water was up you'd run aground."

"Which would be very useful," I observed.

"Oh, hang it!" he laughed, "we're exploring. I want to be ableto run through this channel without a mistake. We will, next time."He stopped, and plied compass and notebook. Then we raced on tillthe next halt was called.

"Look," he said, the channel's getting deeper, it was nearly drya moment ago; see the current in it now? That's the flood tidecoming up—from the west, mind you; that is, from theWeser side. That shows we're past the watershed."

"Watershed?" I repeated, blankly.

"Yes, that's what I call it. You see, a big sand such as this islike a range of hills dividing two plains, it's never dead flatthough it looks it; there's always one point, one ridge, rather,where it's highest. Now a channel cutting right through the sandis, of course, always at its shallowest when it's crossing thisridge; at low water it's generally dry there, and it graduallydeepens as it gets nearer to the sea on either side. Now at hightide, when the whole sand is covered, the water can travel where itlikes; but directly the ebb sets in the water falls away on eitherside the ridge and the channel becomes two rivers flowing inopposite directions from the centre, or watershed, as I callit. So, also, when the ebb has run out and the flood begins, thechannel is fed by two currents flowing to the centre and meeting inthe middle. Here the Elbe and the Weser are our two feeders. Nowthis current here is going eastwards; we know by the time of daythat the tide's rising, therefore the watershed is betweenus and the yacht."

"Why is it so important to know that?"

"Because these currents are strong, and you want to know whenyou'll lose a fair one and strike a foul one. Besides, the ridge isthe critical point when you're crossing on a falling tide, and youwant to know when you're past it."

We pushed on till our path was barred by a big lagoon. It lookedfar more imposing than the channel; but Davies, after a rapidscrutiny, treated it to a grunt of contempt.

"It's a cul de sac," he said. "See that hump of sand it'smaking for, beyond?"

"It's boomed," I remonstrated, pointing to a decrepit stemdrooping over the bank, and shaking a palsied finger at theimposture.

"Yes, that's just where one goes wrong, it's an old cut that'ssilted up. That boom's a fraud; there's no time to go farther, theflood's making fast. I'll just take bearings of what we cansee."

The false lagoon was the first of several that began to bevisible in the west, swelling and joining hands over the ribs ofsand that divided them. All the time the distant hissing grewnearer and louder, and a deep, thunderous note began to soundbeneath it. We turned our backs to the wind and hastened backtowards the Dulcibella, the stream in our channel hurryingand rising alongside of us.

"There's just time to do the other side," said Davies, when wereached her, and I was congratulating myself on having regained ourbase without finding our communications cut. And away we scurriedin the direction we had come that morning, splashing through poolsand jumping the infant runnels that were stealing out through riftsfrom the mother-channel as the tide rose. Our observationscompleted, back we travelled, making a wide circuit over higherground to avoid the encroaching flood, and wading shin-deep in thefinal approach to the yacht.

As I scrambled thankfully aboard, I seemed to hear a far-offvoice saying, in languid depreciation of yachting, that it did notgive one enough exercise. It was mine, centuries ago, in anotherlife. From east and west two sheets of water had overspread thedesert, each pushing out tongues of surf that met and fused.

I waited on deck and watched the death-throes of the suffocatingsands under the relentless onset of the sea. The last strongholdswere battered, stormed, and overwhelmed; the tumult of sounds sankand steadied, and the sea swept victoriously over the wholeexpanse. The Dulcibella, hitherto contemptuously inert,began to wake and tremble under the buffetings she received. Then,with an effort, she jerked herself on to an even keel and bumpedand strained fretfully, impatient to vanquish this insolent invaderand make him a slave for her own ends. Soon her warp tightened andher nose swung slowly round; only her stern bumped now, and thatwith decreasing force. Suddenly she was free and drifting broadsideto the wind till the anchor checked her and she brought up toleeward of it, rocking easily and triumphantly. Good-humouredlittle person! At heart she was friends alike with sand and sea. Itwas only when the old love and the new love were in mortal combatfor her favours, and she was mauled in the fracas, that hertemper rose in revolt.

We swallowed a hasty cup of tea, ran up the sails, and startedoff west again. Once across the "watershed" we met a strongcurrent, but the trend of the passage was now more to thenorth-west, so that we could hold our course without tacking, andconsequently could stem the tide. "Give her just a foot of thecentre-plate," said Davies. "We know the way here, and she'll makeless leeway; but we shall generally have to do without it always ona falling tide. If you run aground with the plate down you deserveto be drowned." I now saw how valuable our walk had been. The boomswere on our right; but they were broken reeds, giving no hint as tothe breadth of the channel. A few had lost their tops, and werebeing engulfed altogether by the rising water. When we came to thepoint where they ceased, and the false lagoon had lain, I shouldhave felt utterly lost. We had crossed the high and relativelylevel sands which form the base of the Fork, and were entering thelabyrinth of detached banks which obstruct the funnel-shaped cavitybetween the upper and middle prongs. This I knew from the chart. Myunaided eye saw nothing but the open sea, growing dark green as thedepths increased; a dour, threatening sea, showing its white fangs.The waves grew longer and steeper, for the channels, though stilltortuous, now begin to be broad and deep.

Davies had his bearings, and struck on his course confidently."Now for the lead," he said; "the compass'll be little use soon. Wemust feel the edge of the sands till we pick up more booms."

"Where are we going to anchor for the night?" I asked.

"Under the Hohenhörn," said Davies, "for auld lang syne!"

Partly by sight and mostly by touch we crept round the outermostalley of the hidden maze till a new clump of booms appeared,meaningless to me, but analysed by him into two groups. One wefollowed for some distance, and then struck finally away and begananother beat to windward.

Dusk was falling. The Hanover coast-line, never very distinct,had utterly vanished; an ominous heave of swell was under-runningthe short sea. I ceased to attend to Davies imparting instructionon his beloved hobby, and sought to stifle in hard manual labourthe dread that had been latent in me all day at the prospect of ourfirst anchorage at sea.

"Sound, like blazes now!" he said at last. I came to a fathomand a half. "That's the bank," he said; "we'll give it a bit of aberth and then let go."

"Let go now!" was the order after a minute, and the chain ranout with a long-drawn moan. The Dulcibella snubbed up to itand jauntily faced the North Sea and the growing night.

"There we are!" said Davies, as we finished stowing themainsail, "safe and snug in four fathoms in a magnificentsand-harbour, with no one to bother us and the whole of it toourselves. No dues, no stinks, no traffic, no worries of any sort.It's better than a Baltic cove even, less beastly civilizationabout. We're seven miles from the nearest coast, and five even fromNeuerk—look, they're lighting up." There was a tiny spark inthe east.

"I suppose it's all right," I said, "but I'd rather see a solidbreakwater somewhere; it's a dirty-looking night, and I don't likethis swell."

"The swell's nothing," said Davies; "it's only a stray drainfrom outside. As for breakwaters, you've got them all round you,only they're hidden. Ahead and to starboard is the West Hohenhörn,curling round to the sou'-west for all the world like a stone pier.You can hear the surf battering on its outside over to the north.That's where I was nearly wrecked that day, and the little channelI stumbled into must be quite near us somewhere. Half a mileaway—to port there—is the East Hohenhörn, where Ibrought up, after dashing across this lake we're in. Another mileastern is the main body of the sands, the top prong of your fork.So you see we're shut in—practically. Surely you remember thechart? Why, it's——"

"Oh, confound the chart!" I broke out, finding this flow ofplausible comfort too dismally suggestive for my nerves."Look at it, man! Supposing anything happens—supposingit blows a gale! But it's no good shivering here and staring at theview. I'm going below."

There was a mauvais quart d'heure below, during which, Iam ashamed to say, I forgot the quest.

"Which soup do you feel inclined for?" said Davies, timidly,after a black silence of some minutes.

That simple remark, more eloquent of security than a thousandtechnical arguments, saved the situation.

"I say, Davies," I said, "I'm a white-livered cur at the best,and you mustn't spare me. But you're not like any yachtsman I evermet before, or any sailor of any sort. You're so casual and quietin the extraordinary things you do. I believe I should like youbetter if you let fly a volley of deep-sea oaths sometimes, orthreatened to put me in irons."

Davies opened wide eyes, and said it was all his fault forforgetting that I was not as used to such anchorages as he was."And, by the way," he added, "as to its blowing a gale, I shouldn'twonder if it did; the glass is falling hard; but it can't hurt us.You see, even at high water the drift of the sea——"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't begin again. You'll prove soonthat we're safer here than in an hotel. Let's have dinner, and athundering good one!"

Dinner ran a smooth course, but just as coffee was being brewedthe hull, from pitching regularly, began to roll.

"I knew she would," said Davies. "I was going to warn you,only—the ebb has set in against the wind. It's quitesafe——"

"I thought you said it would get calmer when the tide fell?"

"So it will, but it may seem rougher. Tides are queerthings," he added, as though in defence of some not veryrespectable acquaintances.

He busied himself with his logbook, swaying easily to the motionof the boat; and I for my part tried to write up my diary, but Icould not fix my attention. Every loose article in the boat becameaudibly restless. Cans clinked, cupboards rattled, lockers utteredhollow groans. Small things sidled out of dark hiding-places, anddanced grotesque drunken figures on the floor, like goblins in ahaunted glade. The mast whined dolorously at every heel, and thecentreboard hiccoughed and choked. Overhead another horde of demonsseemed to have been let loose. The deck and mast were conductorswhich magnified every sound and made the tap-tap of every rope'send resemble the blows of a hammer, and the slapping of thehalyards against the mast the rattle of a Maxim gun. The wholetumult beat time to a rhythmical chorus which became maddening.

"We might turn in now," said Davies; "it's half-past ten."

"What, sleep through this?" I exclaimed. "I can't stand this, Imust do something. Can't we go for another walk?"

I spoke in bitter, half-delirious jest.

"Of course we can," said Davies, "if you don't mind a bit of atumble in the dinghy."

I reconsidered my rash suggestion, but it was too late now toturn back, and some desperate expedient was necessary. I foundmyself on deck, gripping a backstay and looking giddily down andthen up at the dinghy, as it bobbed like a cork in the trough ofthe sea alongside, while Davies settled the sculls androwlocks.

"Jump!" he shouted, and before I could gather my wits and clutchthe sides we were adrift in the night, reeling from hollow tohollow of the steep curling waves. Davies nursed our walnut-shelltenderly over their crests, edging her slantwise across theircourse. He used very little exertion, relying on the tide to carryus to our goal. Suddenly the motion ceased. A dark slope loomed upout of the night, and the dinghy rested softly in a shalloweddy.

"The West Hohenhörn," said Davies. We jumped out and sank intosoft mud, hauled up the dinghy a foot or two, then mounted the bankand were on hard, wet sand. The wind leapt on us, and choked ourvoices.

"Let's find my channel," bawled Davies. "This way. Keep Neuerklight right astern of you."

We set off with a long, stooping stride in the teeth of thewind, and straight towards the roar of the breakers on the fartherside of the sand. A line of Matthew Arnold's, "The naked shinglesof the world," was running in my head. "Seven miles from land," Ithought, "scuttling like sea-birds on a transient islet of sand,encircled by rushing tides and hammered by ocean, at midnight in arising gale—cut off even from our one dubious refuge." It wasthe time, if ever, to conquer weakness. A mad gaiety surged throughme as I drank the wind and pressed forward. It seemed but a minuteor two and Davies clutched me.

"Look out!" he shouted. "It's my channel."

The ground sloped down, and a rushing river glimmered before us.We struck off at a tangent and followed its course to the north,stumbling in muddy rifts, slipping on seaweed, beginning to beblinded by a fine salt spray, and deafened by the thunder of theocean surf. The river broadened, whitened, roughened, gathereditself for the shock, was shattered, and dissolved in milky gloom.We wheeled away to the right, and splashed into yeasty froth. Iturned my back to the wind, scooped the brine out of my eyes, facedback and saw that our path was barred by a welter of surf. Davies'svoice was in my ear and his arm was pointing seaward.

"This—is—about where—I—bumpedfirst—worse then—nor'-westwind—this—is—nothing.Let's—go—right—round."

We galloped away with the wind behind us, skirting the line ofsurf. I lost all account of time and direction. Another sea barredour road, became another river as we slanted along its shore. Againwe were in the teeth of that intoxicating wind. Then a point oflight was swaying and flickering away to the left, and now we werechecking and circling. I stumbled against something sharp—thedinghy's gunwale. So we had completed the circuit of our fugitivedomain, that dream-island—nightmare island as I alwaysremember it.

"You must scull, too," said Davies. "It's blowing hard now. Keepher nose up a little—all you know!"

We lurched along, my scull sometimes buried to the thwart,sometimes striking at the bubbles of a wave top. Davies, in thebows, said "Pull!" or "Steady!" at intervals. I heard the scudsmacking against his oilskin back. Then a wan, yellow light glancedover the waves. "Easy! Let her come!" and the bowsprit of theDulcibella, swollen to spectral proportions, was stabbingthe darkness above me. "Back a bit! Two good strokes. Ship yourscull! Now jump!" I clawed at the tossing hull and landed in aheap. Davies followed with the painter, and the dinghy sweptastern.

"She's riding beautifully now," said he, when he had secured thepainter. "There'll be no rolling on the flood, and it's nearly lowwater."

I don't think I should have cared, however much she had rolled.I was finally cured of funk.

It was well that I was, for to be pitched out of your bunk on towet oil-cloth is a disheartening beginning to a day. This happenedabout eight o'clock. The yacht was pitching violently, and Icrawled on all fours into the cabin, where Davies was setting outbreakfast on the floor.

"I let you sleep on," he said; "we can't do anything till thewater falls. We should never get the anchor up in this sea. Comeand have a look round. It's clearing now," he went on, when we werecrouching low on deck, gripping cleats for safety. "Wind's veeredto nor'-west. It's been blowing a full gale, and the sea is at itsworst now—near high water. You'll never see worse thanthis."

I was prepared for what I saw—the stormy sea for leaguesaround, and a chaos of breakers where our dream-island hadstood—and took it quietly, even with a sort of elation. TheDulcibella faced the storm as doggedly as ever, plunging herbowsprit into the sea and flinging green water over her bows. Awave of confidence and affection for her welled through me. I hadbeen used to resent the weight and bulk of her unwieldy anchor andcable, but I saw their use now; varnish, paint, spotless decks, andsnowy sails were foppish absurdities of a hateful past.

"What can we do to-day?" I asked.

"We must keep well inside the banks and be precious carefulwherever there's a swell. It's rampant in here, you see, in spiteof the barrier of sand. But there's plenty we can do fartherback."

We breakfasted in horrible discomfort; then smoked and talkedtill the roar of the breakers dwindled. At the first sign of baresand we got under way, under mizzen and headsails only, and Ilearned how to sail a reluctant anchor out of the ground. Pivotinground, we scudded east before the wind, over the ground we hadtraversed the evening before, while an archipelago of new banksslowly shouldered up above the fast weakening waves. We troddelicately among and around them, sounding and observing; heavingto where space permitted, and sometimes using the dinghy. I beganto see where the risks lay in this sort of navigation. Wherever theocean swell penetrated, or the wind blew straight down a long deepchannel, we had to be very cautious and leave good margins. "That'sthe sort of place you mustn't ground on," Davies used to say.

In the end we traversed the Steil Sand again, but by a differentswatchway, and anchored, after an arduous day, in a notch on itseastern limit, just clear of the swell that rolled in from theturbulent estuary of the Elbe. The night was fair, and when thetide receded we lay perfectly still, the fresh wind only sending alip-lip of ripples against our sides.

CHAPTER XIII.
The Meaning of our Work

Nothing happened during the next ten days to disturb us at ourwork. During every hour of daylight and many of darkness, sailingor anchored, aground or afloat, in rain and shine, wind and calm,we studied the bed of the estuaries, and practised ourselves inthreading the network of channels; holding no communication withthe land and rarely approaching it. It was a life of toil,exposure, and peril; a struggle against odds, too; for wildautumnal weather was the rule, with the wind backing and veeringbetween the south-west and north-west, and only for two placid daysblowing gently from the east, the safe quarter for this region. Itsforce and direction determined each fresh choice of ground. If itwas high and northerly we explored the inner fastnesses; inmoderate intervals the exterior fringe, darting when surprised intowhatever lair was most convenient.

Sometimes we were tramping vast solitudes of sand, sometimesscudding across ephemeral tracts of shallow sea. Again, we werecreeping gingerly round the deeper arteries that surround the GreatKnecht, examining their convolutions as it were the veins of aliving tissue, and the circulation of the tide throbbing throughthem like blood. Again, we would be staggering through thetide-rips and overfalls that infest the open fairway of the Weseron our passage between the Fork and the Pike. On one of our finedays I saw the scene of Davies's original adventure by daylightwith the banks dry and the channels manifest. The reader has seenit on the chart, and can, up to a point, form his opinion; I canonly add that I realised by ocular proof that no more fatal trapcould have been devised for an innocent stranger; for approachingit from the north-west under the easiest conditions it was hardenough to verify our true course. In a period so full of newexcitements it is not easy for me to say when we were hardest putto it, especially as it was a rule with Davies never to admit thatwe were in any danger at all. But I think that our ugliestexperience was on the 10th, when, owing to some minutemiscalculation, we stranded in a dangerous spot. Mere stranding, ofcourse, was all in the day's work; the constantly recurringquestion being when and where to court or risk it. This time wewere so situated that when the rising tide came again we were on alee shore, broadside on to a gale of wind which was sending a nastysea—with a three-mile drift to give it force—downRobin's Balje, which is one of the deeper arteries I spoke ofabove, and now lay dead to windward of us. The climax came aboutten o'clock at night. "We can do nothing till she floats," saidDavies; and I can see him now quietly smoking and splicing a chafedwarp while he explained that her double skin of teak fitted her tostand anything in reason. She certainly had a terrific test thatnight, for the bottom was hard, unyielding sand, on which she roseand fell with convulsive vehemence. The last half-hour was for meone of almost intolerable tension. I spent it on deck unable tobear the suspense below. Sheets of driven sea flew bodily over thehull, and a score of times I thought she must succumb as sheshivered to the blows of her keel on the sand. But those stoutskins knit by honest labour stood the trial. One final thud and shewrenched herself bodily free, found her anchor, and rode clear.

On the whole I think we made few mistakes. Davies had a supremeaptitude for the work. Every hour, sometimes every minute, broughtit* problem, and his resource never failed. The stiffer it was thecooler he became. He had, too, that intuition which is independentof acquired skill, and is at the root of all genius; which, to takecases analogous to his own, is the last quality of the perfectguide or scout. I believe he could smell sand where he couldnot see or touch it.

As for me, the sea has never been my element, and never will be;nevertheless, I hardened to the life, grew salt, tough, andtolerably alert. As a soldier learns more in a week of war than inyears of parades and pipeclay, so, cut off from all distractions,moving from bivouac to precarious bivouac, and depending, to someextent, for my life on my muscles and wits, I rapidly learnt mywork and gained a certain dexterity. I knew my ropes in the dark,could beat economically to windward through squalls, take bearings,and estimate the interaction of wind and tide.

We were generally in solitude, but occasionally we met galliotslike the Johannes tacking through the sands, and once ortwice we found a fleet of such boats anchored in a gut, waiting forwater. Their draught, loaded, was from six to seven feet, our ownonly four, without our centre-plate, but we took their mean draughtas the standard of all our observations. That is, we set ourselvesto ascertain when and how a vessel drawing six and a half feetcould navigate the sands.

A word more as to our motive. It was Davies's conviction, as Ihave said, that the whole region would in war be an idealhunting-ground for small free-lance marauders, and I began to knowhe was right; for look at the three sea-roads through the sands toHamburg, Bremen, Wilhelmshaven, and the heart of commercialGermany. They are like highways piercing a mountainous district bydefiles, where a handful of desperate men can arrest an army.

Follow the parallel of a war on land. People your mountains witha daring and resourceful race, who possess an intimate knowledge ofevery track and bridle-path, who operate in small bands, travellight, and move rapidly. See what an immense advantage suchguerillas possess over an enemy which clings to beaten tracks,moves in large bodies, slowly, and does not "know the country". Seehow they can not only inflict disasters on a foe who vastlyovermatches them in strength, but can prolong a semi-passiveresistance long after all decisive battles have been fought. See,too, how the strong invader can only conquer his elusiveantagonists by learning their methods, studying the country, andmatching them in mobility and cunning. The parallel must not bepressed too far; but that this sort of warfare will have itscounterpart on the sea is a truth which cannot be questioned.

Davies in his enthusiasm set no limits to its importance. Thesmall boat in shallow waters played a mighty rôle in hisvision of a naval war, a part that would grow in importance as thewar developed and reach its height in the final stages.

"The heavy battle fleets are all very well," he used to say,"but if the sides are well matched there might be nothing left ofthem after a few months of war. They might destroy one anothermutually, leaving as nominal conqueror an admiral with scarcely abattleship to bless himself with. It's then that the true strugglewill set in; and it's then that anything that will float will bepressed into the service, and anybody who can steer a boat, knowshis waters, and doesn't care the toss of a coin for his life, willhave magnificent opportunities. It cuts both ways. What small boatscan do in these waters is plain enough; but take our own case. Saywe're beaten on the high seas by a coalition. There's then a riskof starvation or invasion. It's all rot what they talk aboutinstant surrender. We can live on half rations, recuperate, andbuild; but we must have time. Meanwhile our coast and ports are indanger, for the millions we sink in forts and mines won't carry usfar. They're fixed—pure passive defence. What you want isboats—mosquitoes with stings—swarms ofthem—patrol-boats, scout-boats, torpedo-boats; intelligentirregulars manned by local men, with a pretty free hand to playtheir own game. And what a splendid game to play! There are placesvery like this over there—nothing half so good, butsimilar—the Mersey estuary, the Dee, the Severn, the Wash,and, best of all, the Thames, with all the Kent, Essex, and Suffolkbanks round it. But as for defending our coasts in the way Imean—we've nothing ready—nothing whatsoever! We don'teven build or use small torpedo-boats. These fast 'destroyers' areno good for this work—too long and unmanageable, andmost of them too deep. What you want is something strong andsimple, of light draught, and with only a spar-torpedo, if it cameto that. Tugs, launches, small yachts—anything would do at apinch, for success would depend on intelligence, not on brute forceor complicated mechanism. They'd get wiped out often, but whatmatter? There'd be no lack of the right sort of men for them if thething was organised. But where are the men?

"Or, suppose we have the best of it on the high seas, and haveto attack or blockade a coast like this, which is sand from end toend. You can't improvise people who are at home in such waters. Thenavy chaps don't learn it, though, by Jove! they're the mostmagnificent service in the world—in pluck, and nerve, andeverything else. They'll try anything, and often do theimpossible. But their boats are deep, and they get little practicein this sort of thing."

Davies never pushed home his argument here; but I know that itwas the passionate wish of his heart, somehow and somewhere, to geta chance of turning his knowledge of this coast to practicalaccount in the war that he felt was bound to come, to play that"splendid game" in this, the most fascinating field for it.

I can do no more than sketch his views. Hearing them as I did,with the very splash of the surf and the bubble of the tides in myears, they made a profound impression on me, and gave me the veryzeal for our work he, by temperament, possessed.

But as the days passed and nothing occurred to disturb us, Ifelt more and more strongly that, as regards our quest, we were onthe wrong tack. We found nothing suspicious, nothing that suggesteda really adequate motive for Dollmann's treachery. I becameimpatient, and was for pushing on more quickly westward. Daviesstill clung to his theory, but the same feeling influenced him.

"It's something to do with these channels in the sand," hepersisted, "but I'm afraid, as you say, we haven't got at the heartof the mystery. Nobody seems to care a rap what we do. We haven'tdone the estuaries as well as I should like, but we'd better pushon to the islands. It's exactly the same sort of work, and just asimportant, I believe. We're bound to get a clue soon."

There was also the question of time, for me at least. I was dueto be back in London, unless I obtained an extension, on the 28th,and our present rate of progress was slow. But I cannotconscientiously say that I made a serious point of this. If therewas any value in our enterprise at all, official duty pales besideit. The machinery of State would not suffer from my absence;excuses would have to be made, and the results braved.

All the time our sturdy little craft grew shabbier and moreweather-worn, the varnish thinner, the decks greyer, the sailsdingier, and the cabin roof more murky where stove-fumes stainedit. But the only beauty she ever possessed, that of perfect fitnessfor her functions, remained. With nothing to compare her to shebecame a home to me. My joints adapted themselves to her crabbedlimits, my tastes and habits to her plain domestic economy.

But oil and water were running low, and the time had come for usto be forced to land and renew our stock.

CHAPTER XIV.
The First Night in the Islands

A low line of sandhills, pink and fawn in the setting sun, atone end of them a little white village huddled round the base of amassive four-square lighthouse—such was Wangeroog, theeasternmost of the Frisian Islands, as I saw it on the evening ofOctober 15. We had decided to make it our first landing-place; andsince it possesses no harbour, and is hedged by a mile of sand atlow water, we had run in on the rising tide till the yachtgrounded, in order to save ourselves as much labour as possible inthe carriage to and fro of the heavy water-breakers and oil-canswhich we had to replenish. In faint outline three miles to thesouth of us was the flat plain of Friesland, broken only by sometrees, a windmill or two, and a church spire. Between, the shallowexpanse of sea was already beginning to shrink away into lagoons,chief among which was the narrow passage by which we had approachedfrom the east. This continued its course west, directly parallel tothe island, and in it, at a distance of half a mile from us, threegalliots lay at anchor.

Before supper was over the yacht was high and dry, and when wehad eaten, Davies loaded himself with cans and breakers. I was fortaking my share, but he induced me to stay aboard; for I was deadtired after an unusually long and trying day, which had begun at 2a.m., when, using a precious instalment of east wind, we hadstarted on a complete passage of the sands from the Elbe to theJade. It was a barely possible feat for a boat of our low speed toperform in only two tides; and though we just succeeded, it wasonly by dint of tireless vigilance and severe physical strain.

"Lay out the anchor when you've had a smoke," said Davies, "andkeep an eye on the riding-light; it's my only guide back."

He lowered himself, and I heard the scrunch of his sea-boots ashe disappeared in the darkness. It was a fine starry night, with atouch of frost in the air. I lit a cigar, and stretched myself on asofa close to the glow of the stove. The cigar soon languished anddropped, and I dozed uneasily, for the riding-light was on my mind.I got up once and squinted at it through the half-raised skylight,saw it burning steadily, and lay down again. The cabin lamp wantedoil and was dying down to a red-hot wick, but I was too drowsy toattend to it, and it went out. I lit my cigar stump again, andtried to keep awake by thinking. It was the first time I and Davieshad been separated for so long; yet so used had we grown to freedomfrom interference that this would not have disturbed me in theleast were it not for a sudden presentiment that on this firstnight of the second stage of our labours something would happen.All at once I heard a sound outside, a splashing footstep as of aman stepping in a puddle. I was wide awake in an instant, but neverthought of shouting "Is that you, Davies?" for I knew in a flashthat it was not he. It was the slip of a stealthy man. Presently Iheard another footstep—the pad of a boot on thesand—this time close to my ear, just outside the hull; thensome more, fainter and farther aft. I gently rose and peered aftthrough the skylight. A glimmer of light, reflected from below, waswavering over the mizzen-mast and bumpkin; it had nothing to dowith the riding-light, which hung on the forestay. My prowler, Iunderstood, had struck a match and was reading the name on thestern. How much farther would his curiosity carry him? The matchwent out, and footsteps were audible again. Then a strong, gutturalvoice called in German, "Yacht ahoy!" I kept silence. "Yacht ahoy!"a little louder this time. A pause, and then a vibration of thehull as boots scraped on it and hands grasped the gunwale. Myvisitor was on deck. I bobbed down, sat on the sofa, and I heardhim moving along the deck, quickly and confidently, first forwardto the bows, where he stopped, then back to the companionamidships. Inside the cabin it was pitch dark, but I heard hisboots on the ladder, feeling for the steps. In another moment hewould be in the doorway lighting his second match. Surely it wasdarker than before? There had been a little glow from theriding-lamp reflected on to the skylight, but it had disappeared. Ilooked up, realised, and made a fool of myself. In a few secondsmore I should have seen my visitor face to face, perhaps had aninterview: but I was new to this sort of work and lost my head. AllI thought of was Davies's last words, and saw him astray on thesands, with no light to guide him back, the tide rising, and aheavy load. I started up involuntarily, bumped against the table,and set the stove jingling. A long step and a grab at the ladder,but just too late! I grasped something damp and greasy, there wastugging and hard breathing, and I was left clasping a big sea-boot,whose owner I heard jump on to the sand and run. I scrambled out,vaulted overboard, and followed blindly by the sound. He haddoubled round the bows of the yacht, and I did the same, duckedunder the bowsprit, forgetting the bobstay, and fell violently onmy head, with all the wind knocked out of me by a wire rope andblock whose strength and bulk was one of the glories of theDulcibella. I struggled on as soon as I got some breath, butmy invisible quarry was far ahead. I pulled off my heavy boots,carried them, and ran in my stockings, promptly cutting my foot onsome co*ckle-shells. Pursuit was hopeless, and a final stumble overa bit of driftwood sent me sprawling with agony in my toes.

Limping back, I decided that I had made a very poor beginning asan active adventurer. I had gained nothing, and lost a great dealof breath and skin, and did not even know for certain where I was.The yacht's light was extinguished, and, even with WangeroogLighthouse to guide me, I found it no easy matter to find her. Shehad no anchor out, if the tide rose. And how was Davies to findher? After much feeble circling I took to lying flat at intervalsin the hopes of seeing her silhouetted against the starry sky. Thisplan succeeded at last, and with relief and humility I boarded her,relit the riding-light, and carried off the kedge anchor. Thestrange boot lay at the foot of the ladder, but it told no taleswhen I examined it. It was eleven o'clock, past low water. Davieswas cutting it fine if he was to get aboard without the dinghy'shelp. But eventually he reappeared in the most prosaic way,exhausted with his heavy load, but full of talk about his visitashore. He began while we were still on deck.

"Look here, we ought to have settled more about what we're tosay when we're asked questions. I chose a quiet-looking shop, butit turned out to be a sort of inn, where they were drinking pinkgin—all very friendly, as usual, and I found myself under afire of questions. I said we were on our way back to England. Therewas the usual rot about the smallness of the boat, etc. It struckme that we should want some other pretence for going so slow andstopping to explore, so I had to bring in the ducks, thoughgoodness knows we don't want to waste time over them. Thesubject wasn't quite a success. They said it was tooearly—jealous, I suppose; but then two fellows spoke up, andasked to be taken on to help. Said they would bring their punt;without local help we should do no good. All true enough, no doubt,but what a nuisance they'd be. I got out of it——"

"It's just as well you did," I interposed. "We shall never beable to leave the boat by herself. I believe we're watched," and Irelated my experience.

"H'm! It's a pity you didn't see who it was. Confound thatbobstay!" (his tactful way of reflecting on my clumsiness); "whichway did he run?" I pointed vaguely into the west. "Not towards theisland? I wonder if it's someone off one of those galliots. Thereare three anchored in the channel over there; you can see theirlights. You didn't hear a boat pulling off?"

I explained that I had been a miserable failure as adetective.

"You've done jolly well, I think," said Davies. "If you hadshouted when you first heard him we should know less still. Andwe've got a boot, which may come in useful. Anchor out all right?Let's get below."

We smoked and talked till the new flood, lapping softly roundthe Dulcibella, raised her without a jar.

Of course, I argued, there might be nothing in it. The visitormight have been a commonplace thief; an apparently deserted yachtwas a tempting bait. Davies scouted this possibility from thefirst.

"They're not like that in Germany," he said. "In Holland, if youlike, they'll do anything. And I don't like that turning out of thelantern to gain time, if we were away."

Nor did I. In spite of my blundering in details, I welcomed theincident as the first concrete proof that the object of our questwas no mare's nest. The next point was what was the visitor'sobject? If to search, what would he have found?

"The charts, of course, with all our corrections and notes, andthe log. They'd give us away," was Davies's instant conclusion. Nothaving his faith in the channel theory, I was lukewarm about hisprecious charts.

"After all, we're doing nothing wrong, as you've often saidyourself," I said.

Still, as a true index to our mode of life they were the onlythings on board that could possibly compromise us or suggest thatwe were anything more than eccentric young Englishmen cruising forsport (witness the duck-guns) and pleasure. We had two sets ofcharts, German and English. The former we decided to use inpractice, and to hide, together with the log, if occasion demanded.My diary, I resolved, should never leave my person. Then there werethe naval books. Davies scanned them with a look I knew well.

"There are too many of them," he said, in the tone of a cookfixing the fate of superfluous kittens. "Let's throw themoverboard. They're very old anyhow, and I know them by heart."

"Well, not here!" I protested, for he was laying greedy hands onthe shelf; "they'll be found at low water. In fact, I should leavethem as they are. You had them when you were here before, andDollmann knows you had them. If you return without them, it willlook queer." They were spared.

The English charts, being relatively useless, though moresuitable to our rôle as English yachtsmen, were to be leftin evidence, as shining proofs of our innocence. It was alldelightfully casual, I could not help thinking. A seven-ton yachtdoes not abound in (dry) hiding-places, and we were helplessagainst a drastic search. If there were secrets on thiscoast to guard, and we were suspected as spies, there was nothingto prevent an official visit and warning. There need be no prowlersscuttling off when alarmed, unless indeed it was thought wisest tolet well alone, if we were harmless, and not to arousesuspicions where there were none. Here we lost ourselves inconjecture. Whose agent was the prowler? If Dollmann's, didDollmann know now that the Dulcibella was safe, and back inthe region he had expelled her from? If so, was he likely to returnto the policy of violence? We found ourselves both glancing at theduck-guns strung up under the racks, and then we both laughed andlooked foolish. "A war of wits, and not of duck-guns," I opined."Let's look at the chart."

Map B

The reader is already familiar with the general aspect of thissingular region, and I need only remind him that the mainland isthat district of Prussia which is known as East Friesland. It is a[See Map B] short, flat-toppedpeninsula, bounded on the west by the Ems estuary and beyond thatby Holland, and on the east by the Jade estuary; a low-lyingcountry, containing great tracts of marsh and heath, and few townsof any size; on the north side none. Seven islands lie off thecoast. All, except Borkum, which is round, are attenuated strips,slightly crescent-shaped, rarely more than a mile broad, andtapering at the ends; in length averaging about six miles, fromNorderney and Juist, which are seven and nine respectively, tolittle Baltrum, which is only two and a half.

Of the shoal spaces which lie between them and the mainland,two-thirds dry at low-water, and the remaining third becomes asystem of lagoons whose distribution is controlled by the naturaldrift of the North Sea as it forces its way through the intervalsbetween the islands. Each of these intervals resembles the bar of ariver, and is obstructed by dangerous banks, over which the seapours at every tide scooping out a deep pool. This fans out andramifies to east and west as the pent-up current frees itself,encircles the islands, and spreads over the intervening flats. Butthe farther it penetrates the less coursing force it has, and as aresult no island is girt completely by a low-water channel. Aboutmidway at the back of each of them is a "watershed", only coveredfor five or six hours out of the twelve. A boat, even of thelightest draught, navigating behind the islands must choose itsmoment for passing these. As to navigability, the North SeaPilot sums up the matter in these dry terms: "The channelsdividing these islands from each other and the shore afford to thesmall craft of the country the means of communication between theEms and the Jade, to which description of vessels only they areavailable." The islands are dismissed with a brief note or twoabout beacons and lights.

The more I looked at the chart the more puzzled I became. Theislands were evidently mere sandbanks, with a cluster of houses anda church on each, the only hint of animation in their desolateensemble being the occasional word "Bade-strand", suggestingthat they were visited in the summer months by a handful oftownsfolk for the sea-bathing. Norderney, of course, wasconspicuous in this respect; but even its town, which I know byrepute as a gay and fashionable watering-place, would be dead andempty for some months in the year, and could have no commercialimportance. No man could do anything on the mainland coast—amonotonous line of dyke punctuated at intervals by an infinitesimalvillage. Glancing idly at the names of these villages, I noticedthat they most of them ended in siel—a repulsive termination,that seemed appropriate to the whole region. There wereCarolinensiel, Bensersiel, etc. Siel means either a sewer or asluice, the latter probably in this case, for I noticed that eachvillage stood at the outlet of a little stream which evidentlycarried off the drainage of the lowlands behind. A sluice, or lock,would be necessary at the mouth, for at high tide the land is belowthe level of the sea. Looking next at the sands outside, I noticedthat across them and towards each outlet a line of booms wasmarked, showing that there was some sort of tidal approach to thevillage, evidently formed by the scour of the little stream.

"Are we going to explore those?" I asked Davies.

"I don't see the use," he answered; "they only lead to thosepotty little places. I suppose local galliots use them."

"How about your torpedo-boats and patrol-boats?"

"They might, at certain tides. But I can't see what valuethey'd be, unless as a refuge for a German boat in the last resort.They lead to no harbours. Wait! There's a little notch in the dykeat Neuharlingersiel and Dornumersiel, which may mean some sort of aquay arrangement, but what's the use of that?"

"We may as well visit one or two, I suppose?"

"I suppose so; but we don't want to be playing round villages.There's heaps of really important work to do, farther out."

"Well, what do you make of this coast?"

Davies had nothing but the same old theory, but he urged it witha force and keenness that impressed me more deeply than ever.

"Look at those islands!" he said. "They're clearly the old lineof coast, hammered into breaches by the sea. The space behind themis like an immense tidal harbour, thirty miles by five, and theyscreen it impenetrably. It's absolutely made for shallowwar-boats under skilled pilotage. They can nip in and out of thegaps, and dodge about from end to end. On one side is the Ems, onthe other the big estuaries. It's a perfect base fortorpedo-craft."

I agreed (and agree still), but still I shrugged myshoulders.

"We go on exploring, then, in the same way?"

"Yes; keeping a sharp look-out, though. Remember, we shallalways be in sight of land now."

"What's the glass doing?"

"Higher than for a long time. I hope it won't bring fog. I knowthis district is famous for fogs, and fine weather at this time ofthe year is bad for them anywhere. I would rather it blew, if itwasn't for exploring those gaps, where an on-shore wind would benasty. Six-thirty to-morrow; not later. I think I'll sleep in thesaloon for the future, after what happened to-night."

CHAPTER XV.
Bensersiel

[For this chapter see Map B.]

The decisive incidents of our cruise were now fast approaching.Looking back on the steps that led to them, and anxious that thereader should be wholly with us in our point of view, I think Icannot do better than give extracts from my diary of the next threedays:

"Oct. 16 (up at 6.30, yacht high and dry). Of the threegalliots out at anchor in the channel yesterday, only one isleft.... I took my turn with the breakers this morning and walkedto Wangeroog, whose village I found half lost in sand drifts, whichare planted with tufts of marram-grass in mathematical rows, togive stability and prevent a catastrophe like that at Pompeii. Afriendly grocer told me all there is to know, which is little. Theislands are what we thought them—barren for the most part,with a small fishing population, and a scanty accession of summervisitors for bathing. The season is over now, and business slackfor him. There is still, however, a little trade with the mainlandin galliots and lighters, a few of which come from the 'siels' onthe mainland. 'Had these harbours?' I asked. 'Mud-holes!' hereplied, with a contemptuous laugh. (He is a settler in thesewilds, not a native.) Said he had heard of schemes for improvingthem, so as to develop the islands as health-resorts, but thoughtit was only a wild speculation.

"A heavy tramp back to the yacht, nearly crushed by impedimenta.While Davies made yet another trip, I stalked some birds with agun, and obtained what resembled a specimen of the smallest varietyof jack-snipe, and small at that; but I made a great noise, which Ihope persuaded somebody of the purity of our motives.

"We weighed anchor at one o'clock, and in passing the anchoredgalliot took a good look at her. Kormoran was on her stern;otherwise she was just like a hundred others. Nobody was ondeck.

"We spent the whole afternoon till dark exploring the Harle, orgap between Wangeroog and Spiekeroog; the sea breaking heavily onthe banks outside.... Fine as the day was, the scene from theoffing was desolate to the last degree. The naked spots of the twoislands are hideous in their sterility: melancholy bits ofwreck-wood their only relief, save for one or two grotesquebeacons, and, most bizarre of all, a great church-tower,standing actually in the water, on the north side ofWangeroog, a striking witness to the encroachment of the sea. Onthe mainland, which was barely visible, there was one veryprominent landmark, a spire, which from the chart we took to bethat of Esens, a town four miles inland.

"The days are growing short. Sunset is soon after five, and anhour later it is too dark to see booms and buoys distinctly. Thetides also are awkward just now.[1]High-water at morning and evening is between five andsix—just at twilight. For the night, we groped with the leadinto the Muschel Balge, the tributary channel which laps round theinside of Spiekeroog, and lay in two fathoms, clear of the outerswell, but rolling a little when the ebb set in strong against thewind.

[1] I excludeall the technicalities that I can, but the reader should take notethat the tide-table is very important henceforward.

"A galliot passed us, going west, just as we were stowing sails;too dark to see her name. Later, we saw her anchor-light higher upour channel.

"The great event of the day has been the sighting of a smallGerman gunboat, steaming slowly west along the coast. That wasabout half-past four, when we were sounding along the Harle.

"Davies identified her at once as the Blitz, Commandervon Brüning's gunboat. We wondered if he recognised theDulcibella, but, anyway, she seemed to take no notice of usand steamed slowly on. We quite expected to fall in with her whenwe came to the islands, but the actual sight of her has excited usa good deal. She is an ugly, cranky little vessel, painted grey,with one funnel. Davis is contemptuous about her low freeboardforward; says he would rather go to sea in the Dulce. He hasher dimensions and armament (learnt from Brassey) at his fingers'ends: one hundred and forty feet by twenty-five, one 4.9 gun, one3.4, and four maxims—an old type. Just going to bed; abitterly cold night.

"Oct. 17.—Glass falling heavily this morning, toour great disgust. Wind back in the SW and much warmer. Starting at5.30 we tacked on the tide over the 'watershed' behind Spiekeroog.So did the galliot we had seen last night, but we again missedidentifying her, as she weighed anchor before we came up to herberth. Davies, however, swore she was the Kormoran. We lostsight of her altogether for the greater part of the day, which wespent in exploring the Otzumer Ee (the gap between Langeoog andSpiekeroog), now and then firing some perfunctory shots at sealsand sea-birds . . . (nautical details omitted). . . . In theevening we were hurrying back to an inside anchorage, when we madea bad mistake; did, in fact, what we had never done before, ranaground on the very top of high water, and are now sitting hard andfast on the edge of the Rute Flat, south of the east spit ofLangeoog. The light was bad, and a misplaced boom tricked us;kedging-off failed, and at 8 p.m. we were left on a perfect Araratof sand, and only a yard or two from that accursed boom, which isperched on the very summit, as a lure to the unwary. It is going toblow hard too, though that is no great matter, as we are shelteredby banks on the sou'-west and nor'-west sides, the likely quarters.We hope to float at 6.15 to-morrow morning, but to make sure ofbeing able to get her off, we have been transferring some ballastto the dinghy, by way of lightening the yacht—a horridbusiness handling the pigs of lead, heavy, greasy, and black. Thesaloon is an inferno, the deck like a collier's, and ourselves likesweeps.

"The anchors are laid out, and there is nothing more to bedone.

"Oct. 18—Half a gale from the sou'-west when weturned out, but it helped us to float off safely at six. The dinghywas very nearly swamped with the weight of lead in it, and gettingthe ballast back into the yacht was the toughest job of all. We gotthe dinghy alongside, and Davies jumped in (nearly sinking it forgood), balanced himself, fended off, and, whenever he got a chance,attached the pigs one by one on to a bight of rope, secured to thepeak halyards, on which I hoisted from the deck. It was touch andgo for a few minutes, and then easier.

"It was nine before we had finished replacing the pigs in thehold, a filthy but delicate operation, as they fit like a puzzle,and if one is out of place the floor-boards won't shut down. Comingon deck after it, we saw to our surprise the Blitz, lying atanchor in the Schill Balje, inside Spiekeroog, about a mile and ahalf off. She must have entered the Otzumer Ee at high-water forshelter from the gale; a neat bit of work for a vessel of her size,as Davies says she draws nine-foot-ten, and there can't be morethan twelve on the bar at high-water neaps. Several smacks had runin too, and there were two galliots farther up our channel, but wecouldn't make out if the Kormoran was one.

"When the banks uncovered we lay more quietly, so landed andtook a long, tempestuous walk over the Rute, with compass andnotebooks. Returning at two, we found the glass tumbling downalmost visibly.

"I suggested running for Bensersiel, one of the mainlandvillages south-west of us, on the evening flood, as it seemed justthe right opportunity, if we were to visit one of those 'siels' atall. Davies was very lukewarm, but events overcame him. At 3.30 ablack, ragged cloud, appearing to trail into the very sea, broughtup a terrific squall. This passed, and there was a deathly pause often minutes while the whole sky eddied as with smoke-wreaths. Thenan icy puff struck us from the north-west, rapidly veering till itreached north-east; there it settled and grew harder everymoment.

"'Sou'-west to north-east—only the worst sort do that,'said Davies.

"The shift to the east changed the whole situation (as shiftsoften have before), making the Rute Flats a lee shore, while towindward lay the deep lagoons of the Otzumer Ee, bounded indeed bySpiekeroog, but still offering a big drift for wind and sea. We hadto clear out sharp, to set the mizzen. It was out of the questionto beat to windward, for it was blowing a hurricane in a fewminutes. We must go to leeward, and Davies was for running fartherin well behind the Jans sand, and not risking Bensersiel. A blunderof mine, when I went to the winch to get up anchor, settled thequestion. Thirty out of our forty fathoms of chain were out.Confused by the motion and a blinding sleet-shower that had comeon, and forgetting the tremendous strain on the cable, I cast theslack off the bitts and left it loose. There was then only one turnof the chain round the drum, enough in ordinary weather to preventit running out. But now my first heave on the winch-lever startedit slipping, and in an instant it was whizzing out of thehawse-pipe and overboard. I tried to stop it with my foot, stumbledat a heavy plunge of the yacht, heard something snap below, and sawthe last of it disappear. The yacht fell off the wind, and driftedastern. I shouted, and had the sense to hoist the reefed foresailat once. Davies had her in hand in no time, and was steeringsouth-west. Going aft I found him cool and characteristic.

"'Doesn't matter,' he said; 'anchor's buoyed. (Ever sinceleaving the Elbe we had had a buoy-line on our anchor against theemergency of having to slip our cable and run. For the same reasonthe end of the chain was not made permanently fast below.) We'llcome back to-morrow and get it. Can't now. Should have had to slipit anyhow; wind and sea too strong. We'll try for Bensersiel. Can'ttrust to a warp and kedge out here.'

"An exciting run it was, across country, so to speak, over anunboomed watershed; but we had bearings from our morning's walk.Shoal water all the way and a hollow sea breaking everywhere. Wesoon made out the Bensersiel booms, but even under mizzen andforesail only we travelled too fast, and had to heave to outsidethem, for the channel looked too shallow still. We lowered half thecentreboard and kept her just holding her own to windward, througha most trying period. In the end had to run for it sooner than wemeant, as we were sagging to leeward in spite of all, and the lightwas failing. Bore up at 5.15, and raced up the channel with thebooms on our left scarcely visible in the surf and rising water.Davies stood forward, signalling—port, starboard, orsteady—with his arms, while I wrestled with the helm, flungfrom side to side and flogged by wave-tops. Suddenly found a sortof dyke on our right just covering with sea. The shore appearedthrough scud, and men on a quay shouting. Davies brandished hisleft arm furiously; I ported hard, and we were in smoother water. Afew seconds more and we were whizzing through a slit between twowood jetties. Inside a small square harbour showed, but there wasno room to round up properly and no time to lower sails. Daviesjust threw the kedge over, and it just got a grip in time to checkour momentum and save our bowsprit from the quayside. A man threwus a rope and we brought up alongside, rather bewildered.

"Not more so than the natives, who seemed to think we haddropped from the sky. They were very friendly, with an undercurrentof disappointment, having expected salvage work outside, I think.All showed embarrassing helpfulness in stowing sails, etc. We wererescued by a fussy person in uniform and spectacles, who swept themaside and announced himself as the Custom-house officer (fancy sucha thing in this absurd mud-hole!), marched down into the cabin,which was in a fearful mess and wringing wet, and producing ink,pen, and a huge printed form, wanted to know our cargo, our crew,our last port, our destination, our food, stores, and everything.No cargo (pleasure); captain, Davies; crew, me; last port,Brunsbüttel; destination, England. What spirits had we? Whisky,produced. What salt? Tin of Cerebos, produced, and a damp depositin a saucer. What coffee? etc. Lockers searched, guns fingered,bunks rifled. Meanwhile the German charts and the log, the damningclues to our purpose, were in full evidence, crying for noticewhich they did not get. (We had forgotten our precautions in thehurry of our start from the Rute.) When the huge form was as fullas he could make it, he suddenly became human, talkative, andthirsty; and, when we treated him, patronising. It seemed to dawnon him that, under our rough clothes and crust of brine and grime,we were two mad and wealthy aristocrats, worthy protégés ofa high official. He insisted on our bringing our cushions to dry athis house, and to get rid of him we consented, for we were wet,hungry, and longing to change and wash. He talked himself away atlast, and we hid the log and charts; but he returned, in thepostmaster's uniform this time before we had finished supper, andhaled us and our cushions up through dark and mud to his cottagenear the quay. To reach it we crossed a small bridge spanning whatseemed to be a small river with sluice-gates, just as we hadthought.

"He showed his prizes to his wife, who was quite flustered bythe distinguished strangers, and received the cushions with awe;and next we were carried off to the Gasthaus and exhibited to thevillage circle, where we talked ducks and weather. (Nobody takes usseriously; I never felt less like a conspirator.) Our friend, whois a feather-headed chatterbox, is enormously important about hisridiculous little port, whose principal customer seems to be theLangeoog post-boat, a galliot running to and fro according to tide.A few lighters also come down the stream with bricks and producefrom the interior, and are towed to the islands. The harbour hasfrom five to seven feet in it for two hours out of twelve! HerrSchenkel talked us back to the yacht, which we found resting on themud—and here we are. Davies pretends there are harboursmells, and says he won't be able to sleep; is already worryingabout how to get away from here. Ashore, they were saying that it'simpossible, under sail, in strong north-east winds, the channelbeing too narrow to tack in. For my part I find it a huge relief tobe in any sort of harbour after a fortnight in the open. There areno tides or anchors to think about, and no bumping or rolling.Fresh milk to-morrow!"

CHAPTER XVI.
Commander von Brüning

To resume my story in narrative form.

I was awakened at ten o'clock on the 19th, after a long anddelicious sleep, by Davies's voice outside, talking hisunmistakable German. Looking out, in my pyjamas, I saw him on thequay above in conversation with a man in a long mackintosh coat anda gold-laced navy cap. He had a close-trimmed auburn beard, a keen,handsome face, and an animated manner. It was raining in a rawair.

They saw me, and Davies said: "Hullo, Carruthers! Here'sCommander von Brüning from the Blitz—that's 'meinerFreund' Carruthers." (Davies was deplorably weak interminations.)

The Commander smiled broadly at me, and I inclined an uncombedhead, while, for a moment, the quest was a dream, and I myself feltunutterably squalid and foolish. I ducked down, heard them parting,and Davies came aboard.

"We're to meet him at the inn for a talk at twelve," hesaid.

His news was that the Blitz's steam-cutter had come in onthe morning tide, and he had met von Brüning when marketing at theinn. Secondly, the Kormoran had also come in, and was mooredclose by. It was as clear as possible, therefore, that the latterhad watched us, and was in touch with the Blitz, and thatboth had seized the opportunity of our being cooped up inBensersiel 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 Dulcibellathat he had seen anchored behind Langeoog. Davies had explainedthat we had left the Baltic and were on our way home; taking theshelter of the islands.

"Supposing he comes on board and asks to see our log?" Isaid.

"Pull it out," said Davies, "It's rot, this hiding, after all, Isay. I rather funk this interview; what are we to say? It's not inmy line."

We resolved abruptly on an important change of plan, replacedthe log and charts in the rack as the first logical step. Theycontained nothing but bearings, courses, and the bare data ofnavigation. To Davies they were hard-won secrets of vital import,to be lied for, however hard and distasteful lying was. I wascooler as to their value, but in any case the same thing was now inboth our minds. There would be great difficulties in the cominginterview if we tried to be too clever and conceal the fact that wehad been exploring. We did not know how much von Brüning knew. Whenhad our surveillance by the Kormoran begun? Apparently atWangeroog, but possibly in the estuaries, where we had not fired ashot at duck. Perhaps he knew even more—Dollmann's treachery,Davies's escape, and our subsequent movements—we could nottell. On the other hand, exploration was known to be a fad ofDavies's, and in September he had made no secret of it.

It was safer to be consistent now. After breakfast we determinedto find out something about the Kormoran, which lay on themud at the other side of the harbour, and accordingly addressedourselves to two mighty sailors, whose jerseys bore the legend"Post", and who towered conspicuous among a row of stolid Frisianson the quay, all gazing gravely down at us as at a curious bit ofmarine bric-à-brac. The twins (for such they proved to be) weremost benignant giants, and asked us aboard the post-boat galliotfor a chat. It was easy to bring the talk naturally round to thepoint we wished, and we soon gained some most interestinginformation, delivered in the broadest Frisian, but intelligibleenough. They called the Kormoran a Memmert boat, or"wreck-works" boat. It seemed that off the western end ofJuist, the island lying west of Norderney, there lay thebones of a French war-vessel, wrecked ages ago. She carried bullionwhich has never been recovered, in spite of many efforts. A salvagecompany was trying for it now, and had works on Memmert, anadjacent sandbank. "That is Herr Grimm, the overseer himself," theysaid, pointing to the bridge above the sluice-gates. (I call him"Grimm" because it describes him exactly.) A man in a pilot jacketand 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 onthe wreck being impossible in rough weather. They supposed he wasbringing cargo in his galliot from Wilhelmshaven, all the company'splant and stores coming from that port. He was a local man fromAurich; an ex-tug skipper.

We discussed this information while walking out over the sandsto see the channel at low water.

"Did you hear anything about this in September?" I asked.

"Not a word. I didn't go to Juist. I would have, probably, if Ihadn't met Dollmann."

What in the world did it mean? How did it affect our plans?

"Look at his boots if we pass him," was all Davies had tosuggest.

The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle in it, running northby east, roughly, and edged by a dyke of withies for the firstquarter of a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the north-east,and we saw that exit was impossible in such a wind.

So back to the village, a paltry, bleak little place. We passedfriend Grimm on the bridge; a dark, clean-shaved, saturnine man,wearing shoes. Approaching the inn:

"We haven't settled quite enough, have we?" said Davies. "Whatabout 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 belate."

"Well, I leave it to you."

"All right, I'll do my best. All you've got to do is to beyourself and tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dollmannplayed you."

The next scene: von Brüning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffeeand Kümmel at a table in a dingy inn-parlour overlooking theharbour and the sea, Davies with a full box of matches on the tablebefore him. The Commander gave us a hearty welcome, and I am boundto say I liked him at once, as Davies had done; but I feared him,too, for he had honest eyes, but abominably clever ones.

I had impressed on Davies to talk and question as freely andnaturally as though nothing uncommon had happened since he last sawvon Brüning on the deck of the Medusa. He must ask aboutDollmann—the mutual friend—at the outset, and, ifquestioned about that voyage in his company to the Elbe, must lielike a trooper as to the danger he had been in. This was the oneclear and essential necessity, where much was difficult. Davies didhis duty with precipitation, and blushed when he put his question,in a way that horrified me, till I remembered that hisembarrassment was due, and would be ascribed, to another cause.

"Herr Dollmann is away still, I think," said von Brüning. (SoDavies had been right at Brunsbüttel.) "Were you thinking oflooking him up again?" he added.

"Yes," said Davies, shortly.

"Well, I'm sure he's away. But his yacht is back, Ibelieve—and Fräulein Dollmann, I suppose."

"H'm!" said Davies; "she's a very fine boat that."

Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who wasmiserable. I saw a chance, and took it mercilessly.

"We can call on Fräulein Dollmann, at least, Davies," I said,with a meaning smile at von Brüning.

"H'm!" said Davies; "will he be back soon, do you think?"

The Commander had begun to light a cigar, and took his time inanswering. "Probably," he said, after some puffing, "he's neveraway very long. But you've seen them later than I have. Didn't yousail to the Elbe together the day after I saw you last?"

"Oh, part of the way," said Davies, with great negligence. "Ihaven't seen him since. He got there first; outsailed me."

"Gave you 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 heavyblow. I thought of you that day. How did you manage?"

"Oh, it was a fair wind; it wasn't far, you see."

"Grosse Gott! In that." He nodded towards the windowwhence the Dulcibella's taper mast could be seen pointingdemurely heavenwards.

"She's a splendid sea-boat," said Davies, indignantly.

"A thousand pardons!" said von Brüning, laughing.

"Don't shake my faith in her," I put in. "I've got to get toEngland in her."

"Heaven forbid; I was only thinking that there must have beensome sea round the Scharhorn that day; a tame affair, no doubt,Herr Davies?"

"Scharhorn?" said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in thelatter sentence. "Oh, we didn't go that way. We cut through thesands—by the Telte."

"The Telte! In a north-west gale!" The Commander started, ceasedto smile, and only stared. (It was genuine surprise; I could swearit. He had heard nothing of this before.)

"Herr Dollmann knew the way," said Davies, doggedly. "He kindlyoffered 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 Brüning.

"Yes; there's a nasty surf there, though, isn't there? But itsaves six miles—and the Scharhorn. Not that I saved distance.I was fool enough to run aground."

"Ah!" said the other, with interest.

"It didn't matter, because I was well inside then. Those sandsare difficult at high water. We've come back that way, youknow."

("And we run aground every day," I remarked, withresignation.)

"Is that where the Medusa gave you the slip?" asked vonBrüning, still studying Davies with a strange look, which I stroveanxiously to analyse.

"She wouldn't have noticed," said Davies. "It was very thick andsqually—and she had got some way ahead. There was no need forher to stop, anyway. I got off all right; the tide was risingstill. But, of course, I anchored there for the night."

"Where?"

"Inside there, under the Hohenhörn," said Davies, simply.

"Under the what?"

"The Hohenhörn."

"Go on—didn't they wait for you at Cuxhaven?"

"I don't know; I didn't go that way." The Commander looked moreand 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 adead beat across the sands to Cuxhaven, while it was a fair windstraight out to the Eider River. So I sailed there, and reached theBaltic 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 itto anyone else, if he had not had irrefutable proof of foulplay.

The Commander laughed, suddenly and heartily.

"Another liqueur?" he said. Then, to me: "Upon my word, yourfriend amuses me. It's impossible to make him spin a yarn. I expecthe had a bad time of it."

"That's nothing to him," I said; "he prefers it. He anchored methe other day behind the Hohenhörn in a gale of wind; said it wassafer than a harbour, and more sanitary."

"I wonder he brought you here last night. It was a fair wind forEngland; 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 thesubject.

"Besides," I said, "we've left our anchor and chain out there."And I made confession of my sin.

"Well, as it's buoyed, I should advise you to pick it up as soonas you can," said von Brüning, carelessly; "or someone elsewill."

"Yes, by Jove! Carruthers," said Davies, eagerly, "we must getout on this next tide."

"Oh, there's no hurry," I said, partly from policy, partlybecause the ease of the shore was on me. To sit on a chair uprightis something of a luxury, however good the cause in which you havecrouched 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. Whilethe words were on my lips I remembered the midnight visitor atWangeroog, and guessed that von Brüning was leading up to a test.Grimm (if he was the visitor) would have told him of his narrowescape from detection, and reticence on our part would show wesuspected something. I could have kicked myself, but it was not toolate. I took the bull by the horns, and, before the Commander couldanswer, added:

"By Jove! Davies, I forgot about that fellow at Wangeroog. Theanchor might be stolen, as he says."

Davies looked blank, but von Brüning had turned to me.

"We never dreamed there would be thieves among these islands," Isaid, "but the other night I nearly caught a fellow in the act. Hethought 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 withpredatory instincts. Their fathers made their living out of wreckson this coast, and the children inherit a weakness for plunder.When Wangeroog lighthouse was built they petitioned the Governmentfor compensation, in perfect good faith. The coast is well lightednow, and windfalls are rare, but the sight of a stranded yacht,with the owners ashore, would inflame the old passion; and, dependupon it, someone has seen that anchor-buoy."

The word "wrecks" had set me tingling. Was it another test?Impossible to say; but audacity was safer than reserve, and mightsave trouble in the future.

"Isn't there the wreck of a treasure-ship somewhere fartherwest?" I asked. "We heard of it at Wangeroog" (my firstinaccuracy). "They said a company was exploiting it."

"Quite right," said the Commander, without a sign ofembarrassment. "I don't wonder you heard of it. It's one of the fewthings folk have to talk about in these parts. It lies on JuisterRiff, a shoal off Juist. [See Map B] Shewas a French frigate, the Corinne, bound from Hamburg toHavre in 1811, when Napoleon held Hamburg as tight as Paris. Shecarried a million and a half in gold bars, and was insured inHamburg; foundered in four fathoms, broke up, and there lies thetreasure."

"Never been raised?"

"No. The underwriters failed and went bankrupt, and the wreckcame into the hands of your English Lloyd's. It remained theirproperty till '75, but they never got at the bullion. In fact, forfifty years it was never scratched at, and its very position grewdoubtful, for the sand swallowed every stick. The rights passedthrough various hands, and in '86 were held by an enterprisingSwedish company, which brought modern appliances, dived, dredged,and dug, fished up a lot of timber and bric-à-brac, and then broke.Since then, two Hamburg firms have tackled the job and lost theircapital. Scores of lives have been spent over it, all told, andprobably 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 depôtat Memmert, and is working with a good deal of perseverance. Anengineer from Bremen was the principal mover, and a few men fromNorderney and Emden subscribed the capital. By the way, our friendDollmann is largely interested in it."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Davies's tell-tale facegrowing troubled with inward questionings.

"We mustn't get back to him," I said, laughing. "It's not fairto my friend. But all this is very interesting. Will they ever getthose bars?"

"Ah! that's the point," said von Brüning, with a mysterioustwinkle. "It's an undertaking of immense difficulty; for the wreckis wholly disintegrated, and the gold, being the heaviest part ofit, has, of course, sunk the deepest. Dredging is useless after acertain point; and the divers have to make excavations in the sand,and shore them up as best they can. Every gale nullifies half theirlabour, and weather like this of the last fortnight plays themischief with the work. Only this morning I met the overseer, whohappens to be ashore here. He was as black as thunder overprospects."

"Well, it's a romantic speculation," I said. "They deserve areturn for their money."

"I hope they'll get it," said the Commander. "The fact is, Ihold 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'llunderstand that one has to be reticent as to results in such acase. It's a big stake, and the title is none too sound.There has been litigation over it. Not that I worry much about myinvestment; for I shan't lose much by it at the worst. But it givesone an interest in this abominable coast. I go and see how they'regetting on sometimes, when I'm down that way."

"It is an abominable coast," I agreed heartily, "thoughyou won't get Davies to agree."

"It's a magnificent place for sailing," said Davies, lookingwistfully out over the storm-speckled grey of the North Sea.

He underwent some more chaff, and the talk passed to ourcruising adventures in the Baltic and the estuaries. Von Brüningcross-examined us with the most charming urbanity and skill.Nothing he asked could cause us the slightest offence; and aresponsive frankness was our only possible course. So, date afterdate, and incident after incident, were elicited in the mostnatural way. As we talked I was astonished to find how little therewas that was worth concealing, and heartily thankful that we haddecided on candour. My fluency gave me the lead, and Daviesfollowed me; but his own personality was really our tower ofstrength. I realised that as I watched the play of his eagerfeatures, and heard him struggle for expression on his favouritehobby; all his pet phrases translated crudely into the mostexcruciating German. He was convincing, because he was himself.

"Are there many like you in England?" asked von Brüningonce.

"Like me? Of course—lots," said Davies.

"I wish there were more in Germany; they play at yachting overhere—on shore half the time, drinking and loafing; paidcrews, clean hands, white trousers; laid up in the middle ofSeptember."

"We haven't seen many yachts about, said Davies, politely.

For my part, I made no pretence of being a Davies. Faithful tomy lower nature, I vowed the Germans were right, and, not without asecret zest, drew a lurid picture of the horrors of crewlesscruising, and the drudgery that my remorseless skipper inflicted onme. It was delightful to see Davies wincing when I described myfirst night at Flensburg, for I had my revenge at last, and did notspare him. He bore up gallantly under my jesting, but I knew verywell by his manner that he had not forgiven me my banter about the"charming daughter".

"You speak German well," said von Brüning.

"I have lived in Germany," said I.

"Studying for a profession, I suppose?"

"Yes," said I, thinking ahead. "Civil Service," was my preparedanswer to the next question, but again (morbidly, perhaps) I saw apitfall. That letter from my chief awaiting me at Norderney? Myname was known, and we were watched. It might be opened. Lord, howcasual 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 beback?"

That was how the question of our future intentions was raised,prematurely by me; for two conflicting theories were clashing in mybrain. But the contents of the letter dogged me now, and "when at aloss, tell the truth", was an axiom I was finding sound. So Ianswered, "Pretty soon, in about a week. But I'm expecting a letterat Norderney, which may give me an extension. Davies said it was agood address to give," I added, smiling.

"Naturally," said von Brüning, dryly; the joke had apparentlyceased to amuse him. "But you haven't much time then, have you?" headded, "unless you leave your skipper in the lurch. It's a long wayto England, and the season is late for yachts."

I felt myself being hurried.

"Oh, you don't understand," I explained; "he's in nohurry. He's a man of leisure; aren't you, Davies?"

"What?" said Davies.

I translated my cruel question.

"Yes," said Davies, with simple pathos.

"If I have to leave him I shan't be missed—as an ableseaman, at least. He'll just potter on down the islands, runningaground and kedging-off, and arrive about Christmas."

"Or take the first fair gale to Dover," laughed theCommander.

"Or that. So, you see, we're in no hurry; and we never makeplans. And as for a passage to England straight, I'm not such acoward 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,Herr Davies?"

"I like this coast," said Davies. "And—we want to shootsome ducks." He was nervous, and forgot himself. I had alreadysatirised our sporting armament and exploits, and hoped the subjectwas disposed of. Ducks were pretexts, and might lead tocomplications. I particularly wanted a free hand.

"As to wild fowl," said our friend, "I would like to give yougentlemen some advice. There are plenty to be got, now that autumnweather has set in (you wouldn't have got a shot in September, HerrDavies; I remember your asking about them when I saw you last). Andeven now it's early for amateurs. In hard winter weather a childcan 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 stowhim in your fo'c'sle), and to go to work seriously. Now, if youreally wish for sport, I could help you. I could get you atrustworthy——"

"Oh, it's too good of you," stammered Davies, in a more unhappyaccent than usual. "We can easily find one for ourselves. A man atWangeroog offered——"

"Oh, did he?" interrupted von Brüning, laughing. "I'm notsurprised. You don't know the Frieslanders. They're guileless, as Isaid, but they cling to their little perquisites." (I translated toDavies.) "They've been cheated out of wrecks, and they're all themore sensitive about ducks, which are more lucrative than fish. Astranger is a poacher. Your man would have made slight errors as totime and place."

"You said they were odd in their manner, didn't you, Davies?" Iput in. "Look here, this is very kind of Commander von Brüning; buthadn't we better be certain of my plans before settling down toshoot? Let's push on direct to Norderney and get that letter ofmine, and then decide. But we shan't see you again, I suppose,Commander?"

"Why not? I am cruising westwards, and shall probably call atNorderney. Come aboard if you're there, won't you? I should like toshow you the Blitz."

"Thanks, very much," said Davies, uneasily.

"Thanks, very much," said I, as heartily as I could.

Our party broke up soon after this.

"Well, gentlemen, I must take leave of you," said our friend. "Ihave to drive to Esens. I shall be going back to the Blitzon the evening tide, but you'll be busy then with your ownboat."

It had been a puzzling interview, but the greatest puzzle wasstill to come. As we went towards the door, von Brüning made a signto me. We let Davies pass out and remained standing.

"One word in confidence with you, Herr Carruthers," he said,speaking low. "You won't think me officious, I hope. I only speakout of keen regard for your friend. It is about theDollmanns—you see how the land lies? I wouldn't encouragehim."

"Thanks," I said, "but really——"

"It's only a hint. He's a splendid young fellow, but ifanything—you understand—too honest and simple. I takeit you have influence with him, and I should use it."

"I was not in earnest," I said. "I have never seen theDollmanns; I thought they were friends of yours," I added, lookinghim straight in the eyes.

"I know them, but"—he shrugged his shoulders—"I knoweverybody."

"What's wrong with them?" I said, point-blank.

"Softly! Herr Carruthers. Remember, I speak out of purefriendliness to you as strangers, foreigners, and young. You I taketo have discretion, or I should not have said a word. Still, I willadd this. We know very little of Herr Dollmann, of his origin, hisantecedents. He is half a Swede, I believe, certainly not aPrussian; came to Norderney three years ago, appears to be rich,and has joined in various commercial undertakings. Little scopeabout here? Oh, there is more enterprise than youthink—development of bathing resorts, you know, speculationin land on these islands. Sharp practice? Oh, no! he's perfectlystraight 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, "ifyou take my advice, you'll omit that visit to the Medusaaltogether." He gave me a steady look, smiling gravely.

"How much do you know, and what do you mean?" were the questionsthat throbbed in my thoughts; but I could not utter them, so I saidnothing and felt very young.

Outside we joined Davies, who was knitting his brow overprospects.

"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 with thedinghy, and too narrow a channel to beat in."

Von Brüning was ready with a new proposal.

"Why didn't I think of it before?" he said. "I'll tow you out inmy launch. Be ready at 6.30; we shall have water enough then. Mymen will send you a warp."

It was impossible to refuse, but a sense of being personallyconducted again oppressed me; and the last hope of a bed in the innvanished. Davies was none too effusive either. A tug meant a pilot,and he had had enough of them.

"He objects to towage on principle," I said.

"Just like him!" laughed the other. "That's settled, then!" Adogcart was standing before the inn door in readiness for vonBrüning. I was curious about Esens and his business there. Esens,he said, was the principal town of the district, four milesinland.

"I have to go there," he volunteered, "about a poachingcase—a Dutchman trawling inside our limits. That's my work,you know—police duty."

Had the words a deeper meaning?

"Do you ever catch an Englishman?" I asked, recklessly.

"Oh, very rarely; your countrymen don't come so far asthis—except on pleasure." He bowed to us each and smiled.

"Not much of that to be got in Bensersiel," I laughed.

"I'm afraid you'll have a dull afternoon. Look here. I know youcan't leave your boat altogether, and it's no use asking HerrDavies; but will you drive into Esens with me and see aFrisian town—for what it's worth? You're getting a dismalimpression of Friesland."

I excused myself, said I would stop with Davies; we would walkout over the sands and prospect for the evening's sail.

"Well, good-bye then," he said, "till the evening. Be ready forthe warp at 6.30."

He jumped up, and the cart rattled off through the mud, crossedthe bridge, and disappeared into the dreary hinterland.

CHAPTER XVII.
Clearing the Air

"Has he gone to get the police, do you think?" said Davies,grimly.

"I don't think so," said I. "Let's go aboard before that Customsfellow buttonholes us."

A diminished row of stolid Frisians still ruminated over theDulcibella. Friend Grimm was visible smoking on hisforecastle. We went on board in silence.

"First of all, where exactly is Memmert?" I said.

Davies pulled down the chart, said "There," and flung himself atfull length on a sofa.

The reader can see Memmert for himself. South of Juist,[See Map B] abutting on the Ems delta,lies an extensive sandbank called Nordland, whose extreme westernrim remains uncovered at the highest tides; the effect being toleave a C-shaped island, a mere paring of sand like a boomerang,nearly two miles long, but only 150 yards or so broad, of curiouslysymmetrical outline, except at one spot, where it bulges to thewidth of a quarter of a mile. On the English chart its nakednesswas absolute, save for a beacon at the south; but the German chartmarked a building at the point where the bulge occurs. This wasevidently the depôt. "Fancy living there!" I thought, for the veryname struck cold. No wonder Grimm was grim; and no wonder he wasused to seek change of air. But the advantages of the site wereobvious. It was remarkably isolated, even in a region whereisolation is the rule; yet it was conveniently near the wreck,which, as we had heard, lay two miles out on the Juister Reef.Lastly, it was clearly accessible at any state of the tide, for thesix-fathom channel of the Ems estuary runs hard up to it on thesouth, and thence sends off an eastward branch which closelyborders the southern horn, thus offering an anchorage at oncehandy, deep, and sheltered from seaward gales.

Such was Memmert, as I saw it on the chart, taking in itsfeatures mechanically, for while Davies lay there heedless andtaciturn, a pretence of interest was useless. I knew perfectly wellwhat was between us, but I did not see why I should make the firstmove; for I had a grievance too, an old one. So I sat back on mysofa and jotted down in my notebook the heads of our conversationat the inn while it was fresh in my memory, and strove to drawconclusions. But the silence continuing and becoming absurd, Ithrew my pride to the winds, and my notebook on the table.

"I say, Davies," I said, "I'm awfully sorry I chaffed you aboutFräulein Dollmann." (No answer.) "Didn't you see I couldn't helpit?"

"I wish to Heaven we had never come in here," he said, in a hardvoice; "it comes of landing ever." (I couldn't help smilingat this, but he wasn't looking at me.) "Here we are, given away,moved on, taken in charge, arranged for like Cook's tourists. Icouldn'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 everythingidiotic—your letter, the Foreign Office, the Kormoran,the wreck, the——?"

"You're utterly unreasonable. Didn't you see what traps therewere? I was driven the way I went. We started unprepared, and we'rejolly well out of it."

Davies drove on blindly. "It was bad enough telling all aboutthe channels and exploring——"

"Why, you agreed 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 he wouldn't have madeso much of it. There are all these channels tobe——"

"Oh, hang the channels! I know we wanted a free hand, but we'vegot to go to Norderney some time, and if Dollmann'saway——"

"Why did you harp on Miss Dollmann?" said Davies.

We had worked round, through idle recrimination, to the realpoint of departure. I knew Davies was not himself, and would notreturn 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—likedyachting (I couldn't resist adding this). But directly you reallywant me you turn round and go for me."

"Oh, I didn't mean all that, really," said Davies; "I'msorry—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 talkedabout. I've never pressed you because I thought you would confidein me. You——"

"I know I haven't," said Davies.

"Well, you see the result. Our hand was forced. To have saidnothing about Dollmann was folly—to have said he tried towreck you was equal folly. The story we agreed on was the best andsafest, and you told it splendidly. But for two reasons I had toharp on the daughter—one because your manner when they werementioned 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 Dollmann treated youbadly—discourteously, say: though you pretended not to haveseen it. You want a motive to neutralise that, and induce you torevisit him in a friendly way. I supplied it, or rather I onlyencouraged von Brüning to supply it."

"Why revisit him, after all?" said Davies.

"Oh, come——"

"But don't you see what a hideous fix you've put me in? Howcaddish I feel about it?"

I did see, and I felt a cad myself, as his full distress camehome to me. But I felt, too, that, whosesoever the fault, we haddrifted into a ridiculous situation, and were like characters inone of those tiresome plays where misunderstandings aremanufactured and so carefully sustained that the audience are toobored to wait for the dénouement. You can do that on thestage; but we wanted our dénouement.

"I'm very sorry," I said, "but I wish you had told me all aboutit. Won't you now? Just the bare, matter-of-fact truth. I hatesentiment, and so do you."

"I find it very difficult to tell people things," said Davies,"things like this." I waited. "I did like her—very much." Oureyes met for a second, in which all was said that need be said, asbetween two of our phlegmatic race. "And she's—separate fromhim. That was the reason of all my indecisions." he hurried on. "Ionly told you half at Schlei. I know I ought to have been open, andasked your advice. But I let it slide. I've been hoping all alongthat we might find what we want and win the game without coming toclose quarters again."

I no longer wondered 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 Schlei youspoke of 'settling with' Dollmann."

"I know. When I thought of him I was mad. I made myself forgetthe other part."

"Which recurred at Brunsbüttel?" I thought of the news we hadthere.

"Yes."

"Davies, we must have no more secrets. I'm going to speak out.Are you sure you've not misunderstood her? You say—and I'mwilling to assume it—that Dollmann's a traitor and amurderer."

"Oh, hang the murder part!" said Davies, impatiently. "What doesthat matter?"

"Well, traitor. Very good; but in that case I suspect hisdaughter. No! let me go on. She was useful, to say the least. Sheencouraged you—you've told me that—to make that passagewith them."

"Stop, Carruthers," said Davies, firmly. "I know you meankindly; but it's no use. I believe in her."

I thought for a moment.

"In that case," I said, "I've something to propose. When we getout of this place let's sail straight away to England." "(There,Commander von Brüning," I thought, "you never can say I neglectedyour advice.")

"No!" exclaimed Davies, starting up and facing me. "I'm hangedif we will. Think what's at stake. Think of thattraitor—plotting with Germans. My God!"

"Very good," I said. "I'm with you for going on. But let's facefacts. We must scotch Dollmann. We can't do so withouthurting her."

"Can't we possibly?"

"Of course not; be sensible, man. Face that. Next point; it'sabsurd to hope that we need not revisit them—it's ten to onethat we must, if we're to succeed. His attempt on you is the wholefoundation of our suspicions. And we don't even know for certainwho he is yet. We're committed, I know, to going straight toNorderney now; but even if we weren't, should we do any good byexploring and prying? It's very doubtful. We know we're watched, ifnot suspected, and that disposes of nine-tenths of our power. Thechannels? Yes, but is it likely they'll let us learn them by heart,if they're of such vital importance, even if we are thought to bebona fide yachtsmen? And, seriously, apart from their valuein 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 shallwe do if we meet the Dollmanns?"

Beads of sweat stood on Davies's brow. I felt like a torturer,but it could not be helped. "Tax him with having wrecked you? Ourquest would be at an end! We must be friendly. You must tell thestory you told to-day, and chance his believing it. If he does, somuch the better; if he doesn't, he won't dare say so, and we stillhave chances. We gain time, and have a tremendous hold onhim—if we're friendly." Davies winced. I gave anotherturn to the screw. "Friendly with them both, of course. Youwere before, you know; you liked her very much—you must seemto still."

"Oh, stop your infernal logic."

"Shall we chuck it and go to England?" I asked again, as aninquisitor might say, "Have you had enough?" No answer. I went on:"To make it easier, you do like her still." I had roused myvictim at last.

"What the devil do you mean, Carruthers? That I'm to trade on myliking for her—on her innocence, to—good God! whatdo you mean?"

"No, no, not that. I'm not such a cad, or such a fool, or soignorant of you. If she knows nothing of her father's character andlikes you—and you like her—and you are what youare—oh Heavens! man, face it, realise it! But what I mean isthis: is she, can she be, what you think? Imagine hisposition if we're right about him; the vilest creature on God'searth—a disgraceful past to have been driven to this—inthe pay of Germany. I want to spare you misery." I was going toadd: "And if you're on your guard, to increase our chances." Butthe utter futility of such suggestions silenced me. What a plan Ihad foreshadowed! An enticing plan and a fair one, too, as againstsuch adversaries; turning this baffling cross-current to advantageas many a time we had worked eddies of an adverse tide in thesedifficult seas. But Davies was Davies, and there was an end of it;his faith and simplicity shamed me. And the pity of it, the crueltyof it, was that his very qualities were his last torture, raisingto the acutest pitch the conflict between love and patriotism.Remember that the latter was his dominant life-motive, and thathere and now was his chance—if you would gauge the bitternessof that conflict.

It was in its last throes now. His elbows were on the table, andhis 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 thewreck?"

Further argument was futile. Davies by an effort seemed to sweepthe subject from his thoughts, and I did my best to do the same. Atany rate the air was cleared—we were friends; and it onlyremained to grapple with the main problem in the light of themorning's interview.

Every word that I could recollect of that critical conversationI reviewed with Davies, who had imperfectly understood what he hadnot been directly concerned in; and, as I did so, I began to seewith what cleverness each succeeding sentence of von Brüning's wasdesigned to suit both of two contingencies. If we were innocenttravellers, he was the genial host, communicative and helpful. Ifwe were spies, his tactics had been equally applicable. He hadoutdone us in apparent candour, hiding nothing which he knew wewould discover for ourselves, and contriving at the same time bothto gain knowledge and control of our movements, and to convey uswarnings, which would only be understood if we were guilty, that wewere playing an idle and perilous game, and had better desist. Butin one respect we had had the advantage, and that was in theversion Davies had given of his stranding on the Hohenhörn.Inscrutable as our questioner was, he let it appear not only thatthe incident was new to him, but that he conjectured at itssinister significance. A little cross-examination on detail wouldhave been fatal to Davies's version; but that was where ourstrength lay; he dared not cross-examine for fear of suggesting toDavies suspicions which he might never have felt. Indeed, I thoughtI detected that fear underlying his whole attitude towards us, andit strengthened a conviction which had been growing in me sinceGrimm's furtive midnight visit, that the secret of this coast wasof so important and delicate a nature that rather than attractattention to it at all, overt action against intruders would betaken only in the last resort, and on irrefragable proofs of guiltyintention.

Now for our clues. I had come away with two, each the germ of adistinct theory, and both obscured by the prevailing ambiguity.Now, however, as we thumbed the chart and I gave full rein to myfancy, one of them, the idea of Memmert, gained precision andvigour every moment. True, such information as we had about theFrench wreck and his own connection with it was placed most readilyat our disposal by von Brüning; but I took it to be informationcalculated only to forestall suspicion, since he was aware that wealready associated him with Dollmann, possibly also with Grimm, andit was only likely that in the ordinary course we should learn thatthe trio were jointly concerned in Memmert. So much for the facts;as for the construction he wished us to put on them, I felt sure itwas absolutely false. He wished to give us the impression that theburied treasure itself was at the root of any mystery we might havescented. I do not know if the reader fully appreciated that astutesuggestion—the hint that secrecy as to results was necessaryowing both to the great sum at stake and the flaw in the title,which he had been careful to inform us had passed through Britishhands. What he meant to imply was, "Don't be surprised if you havemidnight visitors; Englishmen prowling along this coast aresuspected of being Lloyd's agents." An ingenious insinuation,which, at the time it was made, had caused me to contemplate a newand much more commonplace solution of our enigma than had everoccurred to us; but it was only a passing doubt, and I dismissed italtogether now.

The fact was, it either explained everything or nothing. As longas we held to our fundamental assumption—that Davies had beendecoyed into a death-trap in September—it explained nothing.It was too fantastic to suppose that the exigencies of a commercialspeculation would lead to such extremities as that. We were not inthe South Sea Islands; nor were we the puppets of a romance. Wewere in Europe, dealing not only with a Dollmann, but with anofficer of the German Imperial Navy, who would scarcely beconnected with a commercial enterprise which could conceivably bereduced to forwarding its objects in such a fashion. It wasshocking enough to find him in relations with such a scoundrel atall, but it was explicable if the motive were imperial—not soif it were financial. No; to accept the suggestion we must declarethe whole quest a mare's nest from beginning to end; the attempt onDavies a delusion of his own fancy, the whole structure we hadbuilt on it, baseless.

"Well," I can hear the reader saying, "why not? You, at anyrate, were always a little sceptical."

Granted; yet I can truthfully say I scarcely faltered for amoment. Much had happened since Schlei Fiord. I had seen themechanism of the death-trap; I had lived with Davies for a stormyfortnight, every hour of which had increased my reliance on hisseamanship, and also, therefore, on his account of an event whichdepended largely for its correct interpretation on a balancednautical judgement. Finally, I had been unconsciously realising,and knew from his mouth to-day, that he had exercised and acted onthat judgement in the teeth of personal considerations, which hisloyal nature made overwhelming in their force.

What, then, was the meaning of Memmert? At the outset it rivetedmy attention on the Ems estuary, whose mouth it adjoins. We hadalways rather neglected the Ems in our calculations; with someexcuse, too, for at first sight its importance bears no proportionto that of the three greater estuaries. The latter bear vessels ofthe largest tonnage and deepest draught to the very quays ofHamburg, Bremerhaven, and the naval dockyard of Wilhelmshaven;while two of them, the Elbe and the Weser, are commerce carriers onthe vastest scale for the whole empire. The Ems, on the other hand,only serves towns of the second class. A glance at the chartexplains this. You see a most imposing estuary on a grander scalethan any of the other three taken singly, with a length of thirtymiles and a frontage on the North Sea of ten miles, orone-seventieth, roughly, of the whole seaboard; encumbered byoutlying shoals, and blocked in the centre by the island of Borkum,but presenting two fine deep-water channels to the incoming vessel.These roll superbly through enormous sheets of sand, unite andapproach the mainland in one stately stream three miles in breadth.But then comes a sad falling off. The navigable fairway shoals andshrinks, middle grounds obstruct it, and shelving foreshorespersistently deny it that easy access to the land that alone cancreate great seaboard cities. All the ports of the Ems are tidal;the harbour of Delfzyl, on the Dutch side, dries at low water, andEmden, the principal German port, can only be reached by a lock anda 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 thestream is navigable far into the interior, where, aided bytributaries and allied canals (notably the connection with theRhine at Dortmund, then approaching completion), it taps theresources of a great area. Strategically there was still lessreason for underrating it. It is one of the great maritime gates ofGermany; and it is the westernmost gate, the nearest to GreatBritain and France, contiguous to Holland. Its great forked deltapresents two yawning breaches in that singular rampart of isletsand shoals which masks the German seaboard—a seaboard itselfso short in proportion to the empire's bulk, that, as Davies usedto say, "every inch of it must be important." Warships could forcethese breaches, and so threaten the mainland at one of its fewvulnerable points. Quay accommodation is no object to suchvisitors; intricate navigation no deterrent. Even the heaviestbattleships could approach within striking distance of the land,while cruisers and military transports could penetrate to the levelof Emden itself. Emden, as Davies had often pointed out, isconnected by canal with Wilhelmshaven on the Jade, a strategiccanal, designed to carry gunboats as well as merchandise.

Now Memmert was part of the outer rampart; its tapering sickleof sand directly commanded the eastern breach; it must beconnected with the defence of this breach. No more admirable basecould be imagined; self-contained and isolated, yet sheltered,accessible—better than Juist and Borkum. And supposing itwere 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 Memmert was the depôt for the salvage operations. Salvagework, with its dredging and diving, offered precisely the disguisethat was needed. It was submarine, and so are some of the mostimportant defences of ports, mines, and dirigible torpedoes. Allthe details of the story were suggestive: the "small localcompany"; the "engineer from Bremen" (who, I wondered, was he?);the few shares held by von Brüning, enough to explain his visits;the stores and gear coming from Wilhelmshaven, a navaldockyard.

Try as I would I could not stir Davies's imagination as mine wasstirred. He was bent on only seeing the objections, which, ofcourse, were numerous enough. Could secrecy be ensured underpretext of salving a wreck? It must be a secret shared bymany—divers, crews of tugs, employees of all sorts. Ianswered that trade secrets are often preserved under no lessdifficult conditions, and why not imperial secrets?

"Why the Ems and not the Elbe?" he asked.

"Perhaps," I replied, "the Elbe, too, holds similar mysteries."Neuerk Island might, for all we knew, be another Memmert; whencruising in that region we had had no eyes for such things,absorbed in a preconceived theory of our own. Besides, we must nottake ourselves too seriously. We were amateurs, not experts incoast defence, and on such vague grounds to fastidiously reject aclue which went so far as this one was to quarrel with our luck.There was a disheartening corollary to this latter argument that inmy new-born zeal I shut my eyes to. As amateurs, were we capable ofusing our clue and gaining exact knowledge of the defences inquestion? Davies, I knew, felt this strongly, and I think itaccounted for his lukewarm view of Memmert 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 withhis peculiar gifts he was able to take advantage. He admitted,however, that it was under a cloud at present, for if knowledge ofthe coastwise navigation were a crime in itself we should scarcelybe sitting here now. "It's something to do with it, anyhow!" hepersisted.

CHAPTER XVIII.
Imperial Escort

Memmert gripped me, then, to the exclusion of a rival notionwhich had given me no little perplexity during the conversationwith von Brüning. His reiterated advice that we should lose no timein picking up our anchor and chain had ended by giving me the ideathat he was anxious to get us away from Bensersiel and themainland. At first I had taken the advice partly as a test of ourveracity (as I gave the reader to understand), and partly as anindirect method of lulling any suspicions which Grimm's midnightvisit may have caused. Then it struck me that this might beover-subtlety on my part, and the idea recurred when the questionof our future plans cropped up, and hampered me in deciding on acourse. It returned again when von Brüning offered to tow us out inthe evening. It was in my mind when I questioned him as to hisbusiness ashore, for it occurred to me that perhaps his landinghere was not solely due to a wish to inspect the crew of theDulcibella. Then came his perfectly frank explanation (withits sinister double entente for us), coupled with aninvitation to me to accompany him to Esens. But, on the principleof timeo Danaos etc., I instantly smelt a ruse, not that Idreamt that I was to be decoyed into captivity; but if there wasanything here which we two might discover in the few hours left tous, it was an ingenious plan to remove the most observant of thetwo till the hour of departure.

Davies scorned them, and I had felt only a faint curiosity inthese insignificant hamlets, influenced, I am afraid, chiefly by ahankering after terra firma which the pitiless rigour of histraining had been unable to cure.

But it was imprudent to neglect the slightest chance. It wasthree o'clock, and I think both our brains were beginning to beaddled with thinking in close confinement. I suggested that weshould finish our council of war in the open, and we both donnedoilskins and turned out. The sky had hardened and banked into aneven 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 harbour was high above it still, and the Dulcibellaand the other boats squatted low in a bed of black slime. Nativeinterest seemed to be at last assuaged, for not a soul was visibleon the bank (I cannot call it a quay); but the top of a blacksou'wester with a feather of smoke curling round it showed abovethe forehatch of the Kormoran.

"I wish I could get a look at your cargo, my friend," I thoughtto myself.

We gazed at Bensersiel in silence.

"There can't be anything here?" I said.

"What can there be?" said Davies.

"What about that dyke?" I said, with a sudden inspiration.

From the bank we could see all along the coast-line, which isdyked continuously, as I have already said. The dyke was here asubstantial brick-faced embankment, very similar, though on asmaller scale, to that which had bordered the Elbe near Cuxhaven,and over whose summit we had seen the snouts of guns.

"I say, Davies," I said, "do you think this coast could beinvaded? Along here, I mean, behind these islands?"

Davies shook his head. "I've thought of that," he said. "There'snothing in it. It's just the very last place on earth where alanding would be possible. No transport could get nearer than wherethe 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 I set foot on it. It was themost innocent structure in the world—like a thousand othersin Essex and Holland—topped by a narrow path, where we walkedin single file with arms akimbo to keep our balance in the gusts ofwind. Below us lay the sands on one side and rank fens on theother, interspersed with squares of pasture ringed in with ditches.After half a mile we dropped down and came back by a short circuitinland, following a mazy path—which was mostly right anglesand minute plank bridges, till we came to the Esens road. Wecrossed this and soon after found our way barred by the stream Ispoke of. This involved a détour to the bridge in thevillage, and a stealthy avoidance of the post-office, for dread ofits garrulous occupant. Then we followed the dyke in the otherdirection, and ended by a circuit over the sands, which were fastbeing covered by the tide, and so back to the yacht.

Nobody appeared to have taken the slightest notice of ourmovements.

As we walked we had tackled the last question, "What are we todo?" and found very little to say on it. We were to leave to-night(unless the Esens police appeared on the scene), and were committedto sailing direct to Norderney, as the only alternative toduck-shooting under the espionage of a "trustworthy" nominee of vonBrüning's. Beyond that—vagueness and difficulty of everysort.

At Norderney I should be fettered by my letter. If it seemed tohave been opened and it ordered my return, I was limited to a week,or must risk suspicion by staying. Dollmann was away (according tovon Brüning), "would probably be back soon"; but how soon? BeyondNorderney lay Memmert. How to probe its secret? The ardour it hadroused in me was giving way to a mortifying sense of impotence. Thesight of the Kormoran, with her crew preparing for sea, wasa pointed comment on my diplomacy, and most of all on my ridiculoussurvey of the dykes. When all was said and done we wereprotégés of von Brüning, and dogged by Grimm. Was it likelythey would let us succeed?

The tide was swirling into the harbour in whorls of chocolatefroth, and as it rose all Bensersiel, dominated as before by HerrSchenkel, straggled down to the quay to watch the movements ofshipping during the transient but momentous hour when the mud-holewas a seaport. The captain's steam-cutter was already afloat, andher sailors busy with sidelights and engines. When it became knownthat we, too, were to sail, and under such distinguished escort,the excitement intensified.

Again our friend of the Customs was spreading out papers tosign, while a throng of helpful Frisians, headed by the twin giantsof the post-boat, thronged our decks and made us ready for sea intheir own confused fashion. Again we were carried up to the inn andoverwhelmed with advice, and warnings, and farewell toasts. Thenback again to find the Dulcibella afloat, and von Brüningjust arrived, cursing the weather and the mud, chaffing Davies,genial and débonnaire as ever.

"Stow that mainsail, you won't want it," he said. "I'll tow youright out to Spiekeroog. It's your only anchorage for the night inthis wind—under the island, near the Blitz, and thatwould mean a dead beat for you in the dark."

The fact was so true, and the offer so timely, that Davies'sfaint protests were swept aside in a torrent of ridicule.

"And now I think of it," the Commander ended, "I'll make thetrip with you, if I may. It'll be pleasanter and drier."

We all three boarded the Dulcibella, and then the endcame. Our tow-rope was attached, and at half-past six the littlelaunch jumped into the collar, and amidst a demonstration thatcould not have been more hearty if we had been ambassadors on avisit to a friendly power, we sidled out through the jetties.

It took us more than an hour to cover the five miles toSpiekeroog, for the Dulcibella was a heavy load in the stiffhead wind, and Davies, though he said nothing, showed undisguiseddistrust of our tug's capacities. He at once left the helm to meand flung himself on the gear, not resting till every rope wasready to hand, the mainsail reefed, the binnacle lighted, and allready for setting sail or anchoring at a moment's notice. Our guestwatched these precautions with infinite amusem*nt. He was in thehighest and most mischievous humour, raining banter on Davies andmock sympathy on me, laughing at our huge compass, heaving the leadhimself, startling us with imaginary soundings, and doubting if hismen were sober. I offered entertainment and warmth below, but hedeclined on the ground that Davies would be tempted to cut thetow-rope and make us pass the night on a safe sandbank. Davies tookthe raillery unmoved. His work done, he took the tiller and satbareheaded, intent on the launch, the course, the details, andchances of the present. I brought up cigars and we settledourselves facing him, our backs to the wind and spray. And so wemade the rest of the passage, von Brüning cuddled against me andthe cabin-hatch, alternately shouting a jest to Davies and talkingto me in a light and charming vein, with just that shade ofpatronage that the disparity in our ages warranted, about my timein Germany, places, people, and books I knew, and about life,especially young men's life, in England, a country he had nevervisited, but hoped to; I responding as well as I could, striving tomeet his mood, acquit myself like a man, draw zest instead ofhumiliation from the irony of our position, but scarcely able tomake headway against a numbing sense of defeat and incapacity. Aqueer thought was haunting me, too, that such skill and judgementas I possessed was slipping from me as we left the land and facedagain the rigours of this exacting sea. Davies, I very well knew,was under exactly the opposite spell—a spell which even thereproach of the tow-rope could not annul. His face, in the glow ofthe binnacle, was beginning to wear that same look of contentmentand resolve that I had seen on it that night we had sailed to Kielfrom Schlei Fiord. Heaven knows he had more cause for worry thanI—a casual comrade in an adventure which was peculiarly his,which meant everything on earth to him; but there he was, washingaway perplexity in the salt wind, drawing counsel and confidencefrom the unfailing source of all his inspirations—thesea.

"Looks happy, doesn't he?" said the captain once. I grunted thathe 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 shelike?"

"Dangerous." I could well believe it.

The hull of the Blitz loomed up, and a minute later ourkedge was splashing overboard and the launch was backingalongside.

"Good-night, gentlemen," said our passenger. "You're safe enoughhere, and you can run across in ten minutes in the morning and pickup your anchor, if it's there still. Then you've a fair windwest—to England if you like. If you decide to stay a littlelonger 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 Davies; and Iheartily agreed.

The narrow vigilant life began again at once. We were "safeenough" in a sense, but a warp and a twenty-pound anchor were poorsecurity if the wind backed or increased. Plans for contingencieshad to be made, and deck-watches kept till midnight, when theweather seemed to improve, and stars appeared. The glass wasrising, so we turned in and slept under the very wing, so to speak,of the Imperial Government.

"Davies," I said, when we were settled in our bunks, "it's onlya day's sail to Norderney, isn't it?"

"With a fair wind, less, if we go outside the islandsdirect."

"Well, it's settled that we do that to-morrow?"

"I suppose so. We've got to get the anchor first.Good-night."

CHAPTER XIX.
The Rubicon

It was a cold, vaporous dawn, the glass rising, and the windfallen to a light air still from the north-east. Our creased andsodden sails scarcely answered to it as we crept across the oilyswell to Langeoog. "Fogs and calms," Davies prophesied. TheBlitz was astir when we passed her, and soon after steamedout to sea. Once over the bar, she turned westward and was lost toview in the haze. I should be sorry to have to explain how we foundthat tiny anchor-buoy, on the expressionless waste of grey. I onlyknow that I hove the lead incessantly while Davies conned, till atlast he was grabbing overside with the boathook, and there was thebuoy on deck. The cable was soon following it, and finally therusty monster himself, more loathsome than usual, after his longsojourn in the slime.

"That's all right," said Davies. "Now we can go anywhere."

"Well, it's Norderney, isn't it? We've settled that."

"Yes, I suppose we have. I was wondering whether it wouldn't beshortest to go inside Langeoog after all."

"Surely not," I urged. "The tide's ebbing now, and the light'sbad; it's new ground, with a 'watershed' to cross, and we're safeto get aground."

"All right—outside. Ready about." We swung lazily roundand headed for the open sea. I record the fact, but in truth Daviesmight have taken me where he liked, for no land was visible, only acouple of ghostly booms.

"It seems a pity to miss over that channel," said Davies with asigh; "just when the Kormoran can't watch us." (We had notseen her at all this morning.)

I set myself to the lead again, averse to reopening a barrenargument. Grimm had done his work for the present, I felt certain,and was on his way by the shortest road to Norderney andMemmert.

We were soon outside and heading west, our boom squared away andthe island sand-dunes just apparent under our lee. Then the breezedied to the merest draught, and left us rolling inert in a longswell. Consumed with impatience to get on I saw fatality in thisfailure of wind, after a fortnight of unprofitable meanderings,when we had generally had too much of it, and always enough for ourpurpose. I tried to read below, but the vile squirting of thecentreboard drove me up.

"Can't we go any faster?" I burst out once. I felt that thereought to be a pyramid of gauzy canvas aloft, spinnakers, flyingjibs and what not.

"I don't go in for speed," said Davies, shortly. He loyally didhis best to "shove her" along, but puffs and calms were the ruleall day, and it was only by towing in the dinghy for two hours inthe afternoon that we covered the length of Langeoog, and creptbefore dark to an anchorage behind Baltrum, its slug-shapedneighbour on the west. Strictly, I believe, we should have kept thesea all night; but I had not the grit to suggest that course, andDavies was only too glad of an excuse for threading the shoals ofthe Accumer Ee on a rising tide. The atmosphere had been slowlyclearing as the day wore on; but we had scarcely anchored tenminutes before a blanket of white fog, rolling in from seaward,swallowed us up. Davies was already afield in the dinghy, and I hadto guide him back with a foghorn, whose music roused hosts of seabirds from the surrounding flats, and brought them wheeling andcomplaining round us, a weird invisible chorus to my mournfulsolo.

The fog hung heavy still at daybreak on the 20th, but dispersedpartially under a catspaw from the south about eight o'clock, intime for us to traverse the boomed channel behind Baltrum, beforethe tide left the watershed.

"We shan't get far to-day," said Davies, with philosophy. "Andthis sort of thing may go on for any time. It's a regular autumnanti-cyclone—glass thirty point five and steady. That galewas the last of a stormy equinox."

We took the inside route as a matter of course to-day. It wasnow the shortest to Norderney harbour, and scarcely less intricatethan the Wichter Ee, which appeared to be almost totally blocked bybanks, and is, in fact, the most impassable of all these outlets tothe North Sea. But, as I say, this sort of navigation, alwayspuzzling to me, was utterly bewildering in hazy weather. Anyattempt at orientation made me giddy. So I slaved at the lead,varying my labour with a fierce bout of kedge-work when we groundedsomewhere. I had two rests before two o'clock, one of an hour, whenwe ran into a patch of windless fog; another of a few moments, whenDavies said, "There's Norderney!" and I saw, surmounting a longslope of weedy sand, still wet with the receding sea, a cluster ofsandhills exactly like a hundred others I had seen of late, butfraught with a new and unique interest.

The usual formula, "What have you got now?" checked my reverie,and "Helm's a-lee," ended it for the time. We tacked on (for thewind had headed us) in very shoal water.

Suddenly Davies said: "Is that a boat ahead?"

"Do you mean that galliot?" I asked. I could plainly distinguishone of those familiar craft about half a mile away, just within thelimit of vision.

"The Kormoran, do you think?" I added. Davies saidnothing, but grew inattentive to his work. "Barely four," from mepassed unnoticed, and we touched once, but swung off under someplay of the current. Then came abruptly, "Stand by the anchor. Letgo," and we brought up in mid-stream of the narrow creek we werefollowing. I triced up the main-tack, and stowed the headsailsunaided. When I had done Davies was still gazing to windwardthrough his binoculars, and, to my astonishment, I noticed that hishands were trembling violently. I had never seen this happenbefore, even at moments when a false turn of the wrist meant deathon a surf-battered bank.

"What is it?" I asked; "are you cold?"

"That little boat," he said. I gazed to windward, too, and nowsaw a scrap of white in the distance, in sharp relief.

"Small standing lug and jib; it's her, right enough," saidDavies to himself, in a sort of nervous stammer.

"Who? What?"

"Medusa's dinghy."

He handed, or rather pushed, me the glasses, still gazing.

"Dollmann?" I exclaimed.

"No, it's hers—the one she always sails. She's cometo meet m—, us."

Through the glasses the white scrap became a graceful littlesail, squared away for the light following breeze. An angle of thecreek hid the hull, then it glided into view. Someone was sittingaft steering, man or woman I could not say, for the sail hid mostof the figure. For full two minutes—two long, pregnantminutes—we watched it in silence. The damp air was foggingthe lenses, but I kept them to my eyes; for I did not want to lookat Davies. At last I heard him draw a deep breath, straightenhimself up, and give one of his characteristic "h'ms". Then heturned briskly aft, cast off the dinghy's painter, and pulled herup alongside.

"You come too," he said, jumping in, and fixing the rowlocks.(His hands were steady again.) I laughed, and shoved the dinghyoff.

"I'd rather you did," he said, defiantly.

"I'd rather stay. I'll tidy up, and put the kettle on." Davieshad taken a half stroke, but paused.

"She oughtn't to come aboard." he said.

"She might like to," I suggested. "Chilly day, long way fromhome, common courtesy——"

"Carruthers," said Davies, "if she comes aboard, please rememberthat she's outside this business. There are no clues to be got fromher."

A little lecture which would have nettled me more if I had notbeen exultantly telling myself that, once and for all, for good orill, the Rubicon was passed.

"It's your affair this time," I said; "run it as youplease."

He sculled away with vigorous strokes. "Just as he is," Ithought to myself: bare head, beaded with fog-dew, ancient oilskincoat (only one button); grey jersey; grey woollen trousers (like adeep-sea fisherman's) stuffed into long boots. A vision of hisantitype, the Cowes Philanderer, crossed me for a second. As to hisface—well, I could only judge by it, and marvel, that he wasgripping his dilemma by either horn, as firmly as he gripped hissculls.

I watched the two boats converging. They would meet in thenatural course about three hundred yards away, but a hitchoccurred. First, the sail-boat checked and slewed; "aground," Iconcluded. The rowboat leapt forward still; then checked, too. Fromboth a great splashing of sculls floated across the still air, thensilence. The summit of the watershed, a physical Rubicon, prosaicand slimy, had still to be crossed, it seemed. But it could beevaded. Both boats headed for the northern side of the creek: twofigures were out on the brink, hauling on two painters. Then Davieswas striding over the sand, and a girl—I could see hernow—was coming to meet him. And then I thought it was time togo below and tidy up.

Nothing on earth could have made the Dulcibella's saloona worthy reception-room for a lady. I could only use hurriedefforts to make it look its best by plying a bunch of cotton-wasteand a floor-brush; by pitching into racks and lockers the litter ofpipes, charts, oddments of apparel, and so on, that had a way ofcollecting afresh, however recently we had tidied up; by neatlyarranging our demoralised library, and by lighting the stove andveiling the table under a clean white cloth.

I suppose about twenty minutes had elapsed, and I was scrubbingfruitlessly at the smoky patch on the ceiling, when I heard thesound of oars and voices outside. I threw the cotton-waste into thefo'c'sle, made an onslaught on my hands, and then mounted thecompanion ladder. Our own dinghy was just rounding up alongside,Davies sculling in the bows, facing him in the stern a young girlin a grey tam-o'-shanter, loose waterproof jacket and dark sergeskirt, the latter, to be frigidly accurate, disclosing a pair ofworkman-like rubber boots which, mutatis mutandis, were verylike those Davies was wearing. Her hair, like his, was spangledwith moisture, and her rose-brown skin struck a note of deliciouscolour against the sullen Stygian background.

"There he is," said Davies. Never did his "meiner Freund,Carruthers," sound so pleasantly in my ears; never so discordantlythe "Fräulein Dollmann" that followed it. Every syllable of thefour 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 verysmall, my sentimental reader—was clasping mine. Of course Ihad strong reasons, apart from the racial instinct, for thinkingher to be English, but I believe that if I had had none at all Ishould at any rate have congratulated Germany on a clever bit ofplagiarism. By her voice, when she spoke, I knew that she must havetalked German habitually from childhood; diction and accent werefaultless, at least to my English ear; but the nativeconstitutional ring was wanting.

She came on board. There was a hollow discussion first abouttime and weather, but it ended as we all in our hearts wished it toend. None of us uttered our real scruples. Mine, indeed, were toonew and rudimentary to be worth uttering, so I said common-sensethings about tea and warmth; but I began to think about my compactwith Davies.

"Just for a few minutes, then," she said.

I held out my hand and swung her up. She gazed round the deckand rigging with profound interest—a breathless, hungryinterest—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 too fewdetails from Davies about his days at Norderney in September.

"Of course, that is what puzzled me," she exclaimed,suddenly, pointing to the mizzen. "I knew there was somethingdifferent."

Davies had belayed the painter, and now had to explain theorigin of the mizzen. This was a cumbrous process, and his hearer'sattention soon wandered from the subject and became centred inhim—his was already more than half in her—and theresult was a golden opportunity for the discerning onlooker. It wasvery brief, but I made the most of it; buried deep a few regrets,did a little heartfelt penance, told myself I had been a cynicalfool not to have foreseen this, and faced the new situation with asinking heart; I am not ashamed to admit that, for I was fond ofDavies, and I was keen about the quest.

She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davies. Hadshe been an unconscious tool or only an unwilling one? If thelatter, did she know the secret we were seeking? In the last degreeunlikely, I decided. But, true to the compact, whose importance Inow fully appreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons,recoiling, as strongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from anyeffort direct or indirect to gain information from such a source.It was not our fault if by her own conversation and behaviour shegave us some idea of how matters stood. Davies already knew morethan I did.

We spent a few minutes on deck while she asked eager questionsabout our build and gear and seaworthiness, with a quaint mixtureof professional acumen and personal curiosity.

"How did you manage alone that day?" she asked Davies,suddenly.

"Oh, it was quite safe," was the reply. "But it's much better tohave a friend."

She looked at me; and—well, I would have died for Daviesthere and then.

"Father said you would be safe," she remarked, withdecision—a slight excess of decision, I thought. And at thatturned to some rope or block and pursued her questioning. She foundthe compass impressive, and the trappings of that hatefulcentreboard had a peculiar fascination for her. Was this the way wedid it in England? was her constant query.

Yet, in spite of a superficial freedom, we were all shy andconstrained. The descent below was a welcome diversion, for weshould have been less than human if we had not extracted somespontaneous fun from the humours of the saloon. I went down firstto see about the tea, leaving them struggling for mutualcomprehension over the theory of an English lifeboat. They soonfollowed, and I can see her now stooping in at the doorway,treading delicately, like a kitten, past the obstructivecentreboard to a place on the starboard sofa, then taking in hersurroundings with a timid rapture that broke into delight at allthe primitive arrangements and dingy amenities of our den. Sheexplored the cavernous recesses of the Rippingille, fingered theduck-guns and the miscellany in the racks, and peeped into thefo'c'sle with dainty awe. Everything was a source of merriment,from our cramped attitudes to the painful deficiency of spoons andthe "yachtiness" (there is no other word to describe it) of thebread, which had been bought at Bensersiel, and had suffered fromincarceration and the climate. This fact came out, and led to somequestions, while we waited for the water to boil, about the galeand our visit there. The topic, a pregnant one for us, appeared tohave no special significance to her. At the mention of von Brüningshe showed no emotion of any sort; on the contrary, she went out ofher way, from an innocent motive that anyone could have guessed, toshow that she could talk about him with dispassionatedetachment.

"He came to see us when you were here last, didn't he?" she saidto Davies. "He often comes. He goes with father to Memmertsometimes. You know about Memmert? They are diving for money out ofan old wreck."

"Yes, we had heard about it."

"Of course you have. Father is a director of the company, andCommander von Brüning takes great interest in it; they took me downin a diving-bell once."

I murmured, "Indeed!" and Davies sawed laboriously at the bread.She must have misconstrued our sheepish silence, for she stoppedand drew herself up with just a touch of momentary hauteur,utterly lost on Davies. I could have laughed aloud at thistransient little comedy of errors.

"Did you see any gold?" said Davies at last, with huskysolemnity. Something had to be said or we should defeat our ownend; but I let him say it. He had not my faith in Memmert.

"No, only mud and timber—oh, I forgot——"

"You mustn't betray the company's secrets," I said, laughing;"Commander von Brüning 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, demurely. "Just passingtravellers."

"You will stop at Norderney?" she said, with naïve anxiety."Herr Davies said——"

I looked to Davies; it was his affair. Fair and square came hisanswer, in blunt dog-German.

"Yes, of course, we shall. I should like to see your fatheragain."

Up to this moment I had been doubtful of his final decision; forever since our explanation at Bensersiel I had had the feeling thatI was holding his nose to a very cruel grindstone. This straightword, clear and direct, beyond anything I had hoped for, brought meto my senses and showed me that his mind had been working far inadvance of mine; and more, shaping a double purpose that I hadnever dreamt of.

"My father?" said Fräulein Dollmann; "yes, I am sure he will bevery glad to see you.

There was no conviction in her tone, and her eyes were distantand troubled.

"He's not at home now, is he?" I asked.

"How did you know?" (a little maidenly confusion). "Oh,Commander von Brüning."

I might have added that it had been clear as daylight all alongthat this visit was in the nature of an escapade of which herfather might not approve. I tried to say "I won't tell," withoutwords, and may have succeeded.

"I told Mr Davies when we first met," she went on. "I expect himback very soon—to-morrow in fact; he wrote from Amsterdam. Heleft me at Hamburg and has been away since. Of course, he will notknow your yacht is back again. I think he expected Mr Davies wouldstay in the Baltic, as the season was so late. But—but I amsure he will be glad to see you."

"Is the Medusa in harbour?" said Davies.

"Yes; but we are not living on her now. We are at our villa inthe Schwannallée—my stepmother and I, that is." She addedsome details, and Davies gravely pencilled down the address on aleaf of the log-book; a formality which somehow seemed toregularise the present position.

"We shall be at Norderney to-morrow," he said.

Meanwhile the kettle was boiling merrily, and I made thetea—cocoa, I should say, for the menu was changed indeference to our visitor's 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 achance might never occur again—carpamus diem.

But the banquet was never celebrated. As at Belshazzar's feast,there was a writing on the wall; no supernatural inscription, butjust a printed name; an English surname with title and initials, incheap gilt lettering on the back of an old book; a silent, sneeringwitness of our snug party. The catastrophe came and passed sosuddenly that at the time I had scarcely even an inkling of whatcaused it; but I know now that this is how it happened. Our visitorwas sitting at the forward end of the starboard sofa, close to thebulkhead. Davies and I were opposite her. Across the bulkhead, on alevel with our heads, ran the bookshelf, whose contents, remember,I had carefully straightened only half an hour ago, little dreamingof the consequence. Some trifle, probably the logbook which Davieshad reached down from the shelf, called her attention to the restof our library. While busied with the cocoa I heard her spellingout some titles, fingering leaves, and twitting Davies with thelittle care he took of his books. Suddenly there was a silencewhich made me look up, to see a startled and pitiful change in her.She was staring at Davies with wide eyes and parted lips, a burningflush mounting on her forehead, and such an expression on her faceas a sleep-walker might wear, who wakes in fear he knows notwhere.

Half her mind was far away, labouring to construe some hideousdream of the past; half was in the present, cringing before somesickening reality. She remained so for perhaps ten seconds, andthen—plucky girl that she was—she mastered herself,looked deliberately round and up with a circular glance, strangelyin the manner of Davies himself, and spoke. How late it was, shemust be going—her boat was not safe. At the same time sherose to go, or rather slid herself along the sofa, for rising wasimpossible. We sat like mannerless louts, in blank amazement.Davies at the outset had said, "What's the matter?" in plainEnglish, and then relapsed into stupefaction. I recovered myselfthe first, and protested in some awkward fashion about the cocoa,the time, the absence of fog. In trying to answer, herself-possession broke down, poor child, and her retreat became ablind flight, like that of a wounded animal, while every sordidcirc*mstance seemed to accentuate her panic.

She tilted the corner of the table in leaving the sofa and spiltcocoa over her skirt; she knocked her head with painful forceagainst the sharp lintel of the doorway, and stumbled on the stepsof the ladder. I was close behind, but when I reached the deck shewas already on the counter hauling up the dinghy. She had evenjumped in and laid hands on the sculls before any check came in herprecipitate movements. Now there occurred to her the patent factthat the dinghy was ours, and that someone must accompany her tobring it back.

"Davies will row you over," I said.

"Oh no, thank you," she stammered. "If you will be so kind, HerrCarruthers. It is your turn. No, I mean, I want——"

"Go on," said Davies to me in English.

I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the sculls fromher. She seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davies handeddown her jacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of ustried to better the situation by conventional apologies. It wasleft to her, at the last moment, to make a show of excusingherself, an attempt so brave and yet so wretchedly lame that Itingled all over with hot shame. She only made matters worse, andDavies interrupted her.

"Auf Wiedersehen," he said, simply.

She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulledaway; Davies turned sharp round and went below.

There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide hadrisen a good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again totake the sculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I wasa silent passenger on the stern seat till we reached her boat, aspruce little yacht's gig, built to the native model, with aspoon-bow and tiny lee-boards. It was already afloat, but ridingquite safely to a rope and a little grapnel, which she proceeded tohaul in.

"It was quite safe after all, you see," I said.

"Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to saysomething to you." (I knew it was coming; von Brüning's warningover again.) "I made a mistake just now; it is no use your callingon us to-morrow."

"Why not?"

"You will not see my father."

"I thought you said he was coming back?"

"Yes, by the morning steamer; but he will be very busy."

"We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to callfor letters anyhow."

"You must not delay on our account. The weather is very fine atlast. It would be a pity to lose a chance of a smooth voyage toEngland. The season——"

"We have no fixed plans. Davies wants to get some shooting.

"My father will be much occupied."

"We can see you."

I insisted on being obtuse, for though this fencing with anunstrung girl was hateful work, the quest was at stake. We weregoing to Norderney, come what might, and sooner or later we mustsee Dollmann. It was no use promising not to. I had given no pledgeto von Brüning, and I would give none to her. The only alternativewas to violate the compact (which the present fiasco had surelyweakened), speak out, and try and make an ally of her. Against herown father? I shrank from the responsibility and counted the costof failure—certain failure, to judge by her conduct. Shebegan to hoist her lugsail in a dazed, shiftless fashion, while ourtwo boats drifted slowly to leeward.

"Father might not like it," she said, so low and from suchtremulous lips that I scarcely caught her words. "He does not likeforeigners much. I am afraid . . . he did not want to see HerrDavies again."

"But I thought——"

"It was wrong of me to come aboard—I suddenly remembered;but I could not tell Herr Davies."

"I see," I answered. "I will tell him."

"Yes, that he must not come near us."

"He will understand. I know he will be very sorry, but," Iadded, firmly, "you can trust him implicitly to do the rightthing." 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. Youwill do so?" She gave me her hand.

"One thing more," I added, holding it, "nothing had better besaid about this meeting?"

"No, no, nothing. It must never be known."

I let go the gig's gunwale and watched her tighten her sheet andmake a tack or two to windward. Then I rowed back to theDulcibella as hard as I could.

CHAPTER XX.
The Little Drab Book

I found Davies at the cabin table, surrounded with a litter ofbooks. The shelf was empty, and its contents were tossed aboutamong 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 a 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 quitefamiliar to me, if its contents were less so. As I noted in anearly chapter, Davies's library, excluding tide-tables, "pilots",etc., was limited to two classes of books, those on naval warfare,and those on his own hobby, cruising in small yachts. He had six orseven of the latter, including Knight's Falcon in theBaltic, Cowper's Sailing Tours, Macmullen's DownChannel, and other less known stories of adventurous travel. Ihad scarcely done more than look into some of them at off-moments,for our life had left no leisure for reading. This particularvolume was—no, I had better not describe it too fully; but Iwill say that it was old and unpretentious, bound in cheap cloth ofa rather antiquated style, with a title which showed it to be aguide for yachtsmen to a certain British estuary. A white labelpartly scratched away bore the legend "3d." I had glanced atit once or twice with no special interest.

"Well?" I said, turning over some yellow pages.

"Dollmann!" cried Davies. "Dollmann wrote it." I turned to thetitle-page, and read: "By Lieut. X——, R.N." The nameitself conveyed nothing to me, but I began to understand. Davieswent on: "The name's on the back, too—and I'm certain it'sthe last she looked at."

"But how do you know?"

"And there's the man himself. Ass that I am not to have seen itbefore! Look at the frontispiece."

It was a sorry piece of illustration of the old-fashioned sort,lacking definition and finish, but effective notwithstanding; forit was evidently the reproduction, though a cheap and imperfectprocess, of a photograph. It represented a small yacht at anchorbelow some woods, with the owner standing on deck in his shirtsleeves: a well-knit, powerful man, young, of middle height,clean-shaved. There appeared to be nothing remarkable about theface; 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 greyishbeard."

"By the shape of his head; that hasn't changed. Look how itwidens at the top, and then flattens—sort of wedgeshaped—with a high, steep forehead; you'd hardly notice it inthat" (the points were not very noticeable, but I saw what Daviesmeant). "The height and figure are right, too; and the dates areabout right. Look at the bottom."

Underneath the picture was the name of a yacht and a date. Thepublisher's date on the title-page was the same.

"Sixteen years ago," said Davies. "He looks thirty odd in that,doesn't he? And fifty now."

"Let's work the thing out. Sixteen years ago he was still anEnglishman, an officer in Her Majesty's Navy. Now he's a German. Atsome time between this and then, I suppose, he came togrief—disgrace, flight, exile. When did it happen?"

"They've been here three years; von Brüning said so."

"It was long before that. She has talked German from a child.What's her age, do you think—nineteen or twenty?"

"About that."

"Say she was four when this book was published. The crash musthave come not long after."

"And they've been hiding in Germany since.

"Is this a well-known book?"

"I never saw another copy; picked this up on a second-handbookstall for threepence."

"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 Dollmann made excuses."

"But he—he came on board? You 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 good deal."

"It explains everything."

We fell into deep reflexion for a minute or two.

"Do you really mean everything?" I said. "In that caselet's sail straight away and forget the whole affair. He's onlysome poor devil with a past, whose secret you stumbled on, and,half mad with fear, he tried to silence you. But you don't wantrevenge, so it's no business of ours. We can ruin him if we like;but is it worth it?"

"You don't mean a word you're saying," said Davies, "though Iknow why you say it; and many thanks, old chap. I didn't mean'everything'. He's plotting with Germans, or why did Grimm spy onus, and von Brüning cross-examine us? We've got to find out whathe's at, as well as who he is. And as to her—what do youthink of her now?"

I made my amende heartily. "Innocent and ignorant," wasmy verdict. "Ignorant, that is, of her father's treasonablemachinations; but aware, clearly, that they were English refugeeswith 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 Davies. "You said atBensersiel that we couldn't hurt him without hurting her. Well, allI can say is, we've got to. The time to cut and run, ifever, was when we sighted her dinghy. I had a baddish minutethen."

"She's given us a clue or two after all."

"It wasn't our fault. To refuse to have her on board would havebeen to give our show away; and the very fact that she's given usclues 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 Davies,slowly. "But the point is, that we have two objects, equallyimportant—yes, equally, by Jove!—to scotch him, andsave her."

There was a pause.

"That's rather a large order," I observed. "Do you realise thatat this very moment we have probably gained the first object? If wewent home now, walked into the Admiralty and laid our facts beforethem, what would be the result?"

"The Admiralty!" said Davies, with ineffable scorn.

"Well, Scotland Yard, too, then. Both of them want our man, Idare say. It would be strange if between them they couldn'tdislodge him, and, incidentally, either discover what's going onhere or draw such attention to this bit of coast as to make furthersecrecy impossible."

"It's out of the question to let her betray her father, and thenrun away! Besides, we don't know enough, and they mightn't believeus. It's a cowardly course, however you look at it."

"Oh! that settles it," I answered, hastily. "Now I want to goback 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 withthem?"

"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 hadyou been saying to her?"

"It was when I met her on the sand. (By the way, it wasn't achance meeting; she had been making inquiries and heard about usfrom a skipper who had seen the yacht near Wangeroog, and she hadbeen down this way before.) She asked at once about that day, andbegan apologising, rather awkwardly, you know, for their rudenessin not having waited for me at Cuxhaven. Her father found he mustget on to Hamburg at once."

"But you didn't go to Cuxhaven; you told her that? What exactlydid you tell her? This is important."

"I was in a fearful fix, not knowing what he had toldher. So I said something vague, and then she asked the veryquestion von Brüning did, 'Wasn't there a schrecklich searound the Scharhorn?'

"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 haveknown by the look of the sea from the portholes, the shorter time,etc."

"But when the Medusa hove to and he shouted to you tofollow him—didn't she understand what was happening?"

"No, evidently not. Mind you, she couldn't possibly have heardwhat we said, in that weather, from below. I couldn'tcross-question her, but it was clear enough what she thought;namely, that he had hove to for exactly the opposite reason, to sayhe was taking the short cut, and that I wasn't to attempt tofollow him."

"That's why she laid stress on waiting for you atCuxhaven?"

"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 andwell."

"But she was remorseful for having induced you to sail at allthat 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, notfinding them, went on to the Baltic by the Eider river, havingchanged my mind about the ship canal."

"Now, what about her voyage back from Hamburg? Was shealone?"

"No; the stepmother joined her."

"Did she say she had inquired about you at Brunsbüttel?"

"No; I suppose she didn't like to. And there was no need,because my taking the Eider explained it."

I reflected. "You're sure she hadn't a notion that you took theshort cut?"

"Quite sure; but she may guess it now. She guessed foul play byseeing that book."

"Of course she did; but I was thinking of something else. Thereare two stories afloat now—yours to von Brüning, the trueone, that you followed the Medusa to the short cut; andDollmann's to her, that you went round the Scharhorn. That'sevidently his version of the affair—the version he would havegiven if you had been drowned and inquiries were ever made; theversion he would have sworn his crew to if they discovered thetruth."

"But he must drop that yarn when he knows I'm alive and backagain."

"Yes; but meanwhile, supposing von Brüning sees himbefore he knows you're back again, and wants to find out thetruth about that incident. If I were von Brüning I should say, 'Bythe way, what's become of that young Englishman you decoyed away tothe Baltic?' Dollmann would give his version, and von Brüning,having heard ours, would know he was lying, and had tried to drownyou."

"Does it matter? He must know already that Dollmann's ascoundrel."

"So we've been supposing; but we may be wrong. We're still inthe dark as to Dollmann's position towards these Germans. They maynot even know he's English, or they may know that and not know hisreal name and past. What effect your story will have on theirrelations with him we can't forecast. But I'm clear about onething, that it's our paramount interest to maintain the statusquo 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 storyand yours don't tally. The discrepancy will not only damn him (thatmay be immaterial), but it will throw doubt on us."

"Why?"

"Because if the short cut was so dangerous that he dared not ownto having led you to it, it was dangerous enough to make yoususpect foul play; the very supposition we want to avoid. We wantto be thought mere travellers, with no scores to wipe out, and nosecrets to pry after."

"Well, what do you propose?"

"Hitherto I believe we stand fairly well. Let's assume wehoodwinked von Brüning at Bensersiel, and base our policy on thatassumption. It follows that we must show Dollmann at the earliestpossible moment that you have come back, and give him timeto revise his tactics before he commits himself.Now——"

"But she'll tell him we're back," interrupted Davies.

"I don't think so. We've just agreed to keep this afternoon'sepisode a secret. She expects never to see us again."

"Now, he comes to-morrow by the morning boat, she said. What didthat mean? Boat from where?"

"I know. From Norddeich on the mainland opposite. There's arailway there from Norden, and a steam ferry crosses to theisland."

"At what time?"

"Your Bradshaw will tell us—here it is: 'Winter Service,8.30 a.m., due at 9.5.'"

"Let's get away at once."

We had a tussle with the tide at first, but once over thewatershed the channel improved, and the haze lightened gradually. Alighthouse appeared among the sand-dunes on the island shore, andbefore darkness fell we dimly saw the spires and roofs of a town,and two long black piers stretching out southwards. We werescarcely a mile away when we lost our wind altogether, and had toanchor. Determined to reach our destination that night we waitedtill the ebb stream made, and then towed the yacht with the dinghy.In the course of this a fog dropped on us suddenly, just as it hadyesterday. I was towing at the time, and, of course, stopped short;but Davies shouted to me from the tiller to go on, that he couldmanage with the lead and compass. And the end of it was that, atabout nine o'clock, we anchored safely in the five-fathomroadstead, close to the eastern pier, as a short reconnaissanceproved to us. It had been a little masterpiece of adroitseamanship.

There was utter stillness till our chain rattled down, when amuffled shout came from the direction of the pier, and soon weheard a boat groping out to us. It was a polite but sleepyport-officer, who asked in a perfunctory way for our particulars,and when he heard them, remembered the Dulcibella's previousvisit.

"Where are you bound to?" he asked.

"England—sooner or later," said Davies.

The man laughed derisively. "Not this year," he said; "therewill be fogs for another week; it is always so, and then storms.Better leave your yawl here. Dues will be only sixpence a month foryou.

"I'll think about it," said Davies. "Good-night."

The man vanished like a ghost in the thick night.

"Is the post-office open?" I called after him.

"No; eight to-morrow," came back out of the fog.

We were too excited to sup in comfort, or sleep in peace, or todo anything but plan and speculate. Never till this night had wetalked with absolute mutual confidence, for Davies broke down thelast barriers of reserve and let me see his whole mind. He lovedthis girl and he loved his country, two simple passions which forthe time absorbed his whole moral capacity. There was no room leftfor casuistry. To weigh one passion against the other, with thediscordant voices of honour and expediency dinning in his ears, hadtoo long involved him in fruitless torture. Both were right;neither could be surrendered. If the facts showed themirreconcilable, tant pis pour les faits. A way must be foundto satisfy both or neither.

I should have been a spiritless dog if I had not risen to hismood. But in truth his cutting of the knot was at this junctureexactly what appealed to me. I, too, was tired of vicariouscasuistry, and the fascination of our enterprise, intensified bythe discovery of that afternoon, had never been so strong in me.Not to be insincere, I cannot pretend that I viewed the situationwith his single mind. My philosophy when I left London was of avery worldly sort, and no one can change his temperament in threeweeks. I plainly said as much to Davies, and indeed took perversesatisfaction in stating with brutal emphasis some social truthswhich bore on this attachment of his to the daughter of an outlaw.Truths I call them, but I uttered them more by rote than byconviction, and he heard them unmoved. And meanwhile I snatchedrecklessly at his own solution. If it imparted into our adventure astrain of crazy chivalry more suited to knights-errant of theMiddle Ages than to sober modern youths—well, thank Heaven, Iwas not too sober, and still young enough to snatch at that fancywith an ardour of imagination, if not of character; perhaps, too,of character, for Galahads are not so common but that ordinary folkmust needs draw courage from their example and put something of ablind trust in their tenfold strength.

To reduce a romantic ideal to a working plan is a very difficultthing.

"We shall have to argue backwards," I said. "What is to be thefinal stage? Because that must govern the others."

There was only one answer—to get Dollmann, secrets andall, daughter and all, away from Germany altogether. So only couldwe satisfy the double aim we had set before us. What a joy it is,when beset with doubts, to find a bed-rock necessity, howeverunattainable! We fastened on this one and reasoned back from it.The first lesson was that, however many and strong were the enemieswe had to contend with, our sole overt foe must be Dollmann. Theissue of the struggle must be known only to ourselves and him. Ifwe won, and found out "what he was at", we must at all costsconceal our success from his German friends, and detach him fromthem before he was compromised. (You will remark that to blithelyaccept this limitation showed a very sanguine spirit in us.) Thenext question, how to find out what he was at, was a deal morethorny. If it had not been for the discovery of Dollmann'sidentity, we should have found it as hard a nut to crack as ever.But this discovery was illuminating. It threw into relief twomethods of action which hitherto we had been hazily seeking tocombine, seesawing between one and the other, each of us influencedat different times by different motives. One was to rely onindependent research; the other to extort the secret from Dollmanndirect, by craft or threats. The moral of to-day was to abandon thefirst and embrace the second.

The prospects of independent research were not a whit betterthan before. There were only two theories in the field, the channeltheory and the Memmert theory. The former languished for lack ofcorroboration; the latter also appeared to be weakened. To FräuleinDollmann the wreck-works were evidently what they purported to be,and nothing more. This fact in itself was unimportant, for it wasclear as crystal that she was no party to her father's treacherousintrigues, if he was engaged in such. But if Memmert was his spherefor them, it was disconcerting to find her so familiar with thatsphere, lightly talking of a descent in adiving-bell—hinting, too, that the mystery as to results wasonly for local consumption. Nevertheless, the charm of Memmert asthe place we had traced Grimm to, and as the only tangible clue wehad obtained, was still very great. The really cogent objection wasthe insuperable difficulty, known and watched as we were, oflearning its significance. If there was anything important to seethere we should never be allowed to see it, while by trying andfailing we risked everything. It was on this point that the last ofall misunderstandings between me and Davies was dissipated. AtBensersiel he had been influenced more than he owned by myarguments about Memmert; but at that time (as I hinted) he wasbiased by a radical prejudice. The channel theory had become a sortof religion with him, promising double salvation—not onlyavoidance of the Dollmanns, but success in the quest by methods inwhich he was past master. To have to desert it and resort to spyingon naval defences was an idea he dreaded and distrusted. It was notthe morality of the course that bothered him. He was far tooclear-headed to blink at the essential fact that at heart we werespies on a foreign power in time of peace, or to salve hisconscience by specious distinctions as to our mode of operation.The foreign power to him was Dollmann, a traitor. There was hisfinal justification, fearlessly adopted and held to the last. Itwas rather that, knowing his own limitations, his whole natureshrank from the sort of action entailed by the Memmert theory. Andthere 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.Davies no longer feared to face the imbroglio at Norderney; andthat day fortune had given us a new and potent weapon againstDollmann; precisely how potent we could not tell, for we had only aglimpse of his past, and his exact relations with the Governmentwere unknown to us. But we knew who he was. Using this knowledgewith address, could we not wring the rest from him? Feel our way,of course, be guided by his own conduct, but in the end strike hardand stake everything on the stroke? Such at any rate was our schemeto-night. Later, tossing in my bunk, I bethought me of the littledrab book, lit a candle, and fetched it. A preface explained thatit had been written during a spell of two months' leave from navalduty, and expressed a hope that it might be of service toCorinthian sailors. The style was unadorned, but scholarly andpithy. There was no trace of the writer's individuality, save acertain subdued relish in describing banks and shoals, whichreminded me of Davies himself. For the rest, I found the book dull,and, in fact, it sent me to sleep.

CHAPTER XXI.
Blindfold to Memmert

"Here she comes," said Davies. It was nine o'clock on the nextday, October 22, and we were on deck waiting for the arrival of thesteamer from Norddeich. There was no change in theweather—still the same stringent cold, with a high barometer,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. Theharbour lay open before us, and very commodious and civilised itlooked, enclosed between two long piers which ran quite half a mileout from the land to the roadstead (Riff Gat by name) where we lay.A stranger might have taken it for a deep and spacious haven; butthis, of course, was an illusion, due to the high water. Daviesknew that three-quarters of it was mud, the remainder being adredged-out channel along the western pier. A couple of tugs, adredger, and a ferry packet with steam up, were moored on thatside—a small stack of galliots on the other. Beyond these wasanother vessel, a galliot in build, but radiant as a queen amongslu*ts; her varnished sides and spars flashing orange in the sun.These, and her snow-white sailcovers and the twinkle of brass andgun-metal, proclaimed her to be a yacht. I had already studied herthrough the glasses and read on her stern Medusa. A coupleof sailors were swabbing her decks; you could hear the slush of thewater and the scratching of the deck-brooms. "They can seeus anyway," Davies had said.

For that matter all the world could see us—certainly theincoming steamer must; for we lay as near to the pier as safetypermitted, abreast of the berth she would occupy, as we knew by agangway and a knot of sailors.

A packet boat, not bigger than a big tug, was approaching fromthe south.

"Remember, we're not supposed to know he's coming," I said;"let's go below." Besides the skylight, our "coach-house" cabin tophad little oblong side windows. We wiped clean those on the portside and watched events from them, kneeling on the sofa.

The steamer backed her paddles, flinging out a wash that set usrolling to our scuppers. There seemed to be very few passengersaboard, but all of them were gazing at the Dulcibella whilethe packet was warped alongside. On the forward deck there weresome market-women with baskets, a postman, and a weedy youth whomight be an hotel-waiter; on the after-deck, standing closetogether, were two men in ulsters 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 awaybehind the deck-house, leaving me just a lightning impression of agrey beard and a steep tanned forehead, behind a cloud ofcigar-smoke. It was perverse of me, but, to tell the truth, Ihardly missed him, so occupied was I by the short one, who remainedleaning on the rail, thoughtfully contemplating theDulcibella through gold-rimmed pince-nez: a sallow, wizenedold fellow, beetlebrowed, with a bush of grizzled moustache and ajet-black tuft of beard on his chin. The most remarkable featurewas the nose, which was broad and flat, merging almostimperceptibly in the wrinkled cheeks. Lightly beaked at the netherextremity, it drooped towards an enormous cigar which was pointingat us like a gun just discharged. He looked wise as Satan, and youwould say he was smiling inwardly.

"Who's that?" I whispered to Davies. (There was no need to talkin whispers, but we did so instinctively.)

"Can't think," said Davies. "Hullo! she's backing off, andthey've not landed."

Some parcels and mail-bags had been thrown up, and the weedywaiter and two market-women had gone up the gangway, which was nowbeing hauled up, and were standing on the quay. I think one or twoother persons had first come aboard unnoticed by us, but at thelast moment a man we had not seen before jumped down to the forwarddeck. "Grimm!" we both ejacul*ted at once.

The steamer whistled sharply, circled backwards into theroadstead, and then steamed away. The pier soon hid her, but hersmoke showed she was steering towards the North Sea.

"What does this mean?" I asked.

"There must be some other quay to stop at nearer the town," saidDavies. "Let's go ashore and get your letters."

We had made a long and painful toilette that morning, and feltquite shy of one another as we sculled towards the pier, inmuch-creased blue suits, conventional collars, and brown boots. Itwas the first time for two years that I had seen Davies in anythingapproaching a respectable garb; but a fashionable watering-place,even in the dead season, exacts respect; and, besides, we hadfriends to visit.

We tied up the dinghy to an iron ladder, and on the pier foundour inquisitor of the night before smoking in the doorway of a shedmarked "Harbour Master". After some civilities we inquired aboutthe steamer. The answer was that it was Saturday, and she had,therefore, gone on to Juist. Did we want a good hotel? The "VierJahreszeiten" was still open, etc.

"Juist, by Jove!" said Davies, as we walked on. "Why are thosethree going to Juist?"

"I should have thought it was pretty clear. They're on their wayto Memmert."

Davies agreed, and we both looked longingly westward at astraw-coloured 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 ofgalliots, on the farther side of the harbour. Two men, whose faceswe took a good look at, were sitting on her hatch, mending asail.

Flooded with sun, yet still as the grave, the town was like adead butterfly for whom the healing rays had come too late. Wecrossed some deserted public gardens commanded by a gorgeouscasino, its porticos heaped with chairs and tables; so pastkiosques and cafés, great white hotels with boarded windows,bazaars and booths, and all the stale lees of vulgar frivolity, tothe post-office, which at least was alive. I received a packet ofletters and purchased a local time-table, from which we learnedthat the steamer sailed daily to Borkum via Norderney,touching three times a week at Juist (weather permitting). On thereturn journey to-day it was due at Norderney at 7.30 p.m. Then Iinquired the way to the "Vier Jahreszeiten". "For whatever yourprinciples, Davies," I said, "we are going to have the bestbreakfast money can buy! We've got the whole day before us."

The "Four Seasons" Hotel was on the esplanade facing thenorthern beach. Living up to its name, it announced on anilluminated signboard, "Inclusive terms for winter visitors;special attention to invalids, etc." Here in a great glassrestaurant, with the unruffled blue of ocean spread out before us,we ate the king of breakfasts, dismissed the waiter, and over longand fragrant Havanas examined my mail at leisure.

"What a waste of good diplomacy!" was my first thought, fornothing had been tampered with, so far as we could judge from theminutest scrutiny, directed, of course, in particular to thefranked official letters (for to my surprise there were two) fromWhitehall.

The first in order of date (October 6) ran: "DearCarruthers.—Take another week by all means.—Yours,etc."

The second (marked "urgent") had been sent to my home addressand forwarded. It was dated October 15, and cancelled the previousletter, requesting me to return to London without delay—"I amsorry to abridge your holiday, but we are very busy, and, atpresent, short-handed.—Yours, etc." There was a drypostscript to the effect that another time I was to be good enoughto leave more regular and definite information as to my whereaboutswhen absent.

"I'm afraid I never got this!" I said, handing it to Davies.

"You won't go, will you?" said he, looking, nevertheless, withunconcealed awe at the great man's handwriting under the haughtyofficial crest. Meanwhile I discovered an endorsem*nt on a cornerof the envelope: "Don't worry; it's only the chief'sfuss.—M——" I promptly tore up the envelope. Thereare domestic mysteries which it would be indecent and disloyal toreveal, even to one's best friend. The rest of my letters need noremark; I smiled over some and blushed over others—all werevoices from a life which was infinitely far away. Davies,meanwhile, was deep in the foreign intelligence of a newspaper,spelling it out line by line, and referring impatiently to me forthe meaning of words.

"Hullo!" he said, suddenly; "same old game! Hear that siren?" Acurtain of fog had grown on the northern horizon and was drawingshorewards slowly but surely.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" I said.

"Well, we must get back to the yacht. We can't leave her alonein the fog."

There was some marketing to be done on the way back, and in thecourse of looking for the shops we wanted we came on theSchwannallée and noted its position. Before we reached the harbourthe fog was on us, charging up the streets in dense masses. Happilya tramline led right up to the pier-head, or we should have lostour way and wasted time, which, in the event, was of pricelessvalue. Presently we stumbled up against the Harbour Office, whichwas our landmark for the steps where we had tied up the dinghy. Thesame official appeared and good-naturedly held the painter while wehanded in our parcels. He wanted to know why we had left theflesh-pots of the "Vier Jahreszeiten". To look after our yacht, ofcourse. There was no need, he objected; there would be no trafficmoving while the fog lasted, and the fog, having come on at thathour, had come to stay. If it did clear he would keep an eye on theyacht 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 ascientific method, the same one, in fact, that Davies had used lastnight in the approach to the eastern pier.

"Row straight out at right angles to the pier," he said now. Idid so, Davies sounding with his scull between the strokes. Hefound the bottom after twenty yards, that being the width of thedredged-out channel at this point. Then we turned to the right, andmoved gently forward, keeping touch with the edge of the mud-bank(for all the world like blind men tapping along a kerbstone) andtaking short excursions from it, till the Dulcibella hove inview. "That's partly luck," Davies commented; "we ought to have hadthe compass as well."

We exchanged shouts with the man on the pier to show we hadarrived.

"It's very good practice, that sort of thing," said Davies, whenwe had disembarked.

"You've got a sixth sense," I observed. "How far could you golike 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 Memmert?" I said, in fun.

"To Memmert?" said Davies, slowly; "by Jove! that's anidea!"

"Good Heavens, man! I was joking. Why, it's ten mortalmiles."

"More," said Davies, absently. "It's not so much thedistance—what's the time? Ten fifteen; quarterebb—— What am I talking about? We made our plans lastnight."

But seeing him, to my amazement, serious, I was stung by thesplendour of the idea I had awakened. Confidence in his skill wassecond nature to me. I swept straight on to the logic of the thing,the greatness, the completeness of the opportunity, if by a miracleit could be seized and used. Something was going on at Memmertto-day; our men had gone there; here were we, ten miles away, in asmothering, blinding fog. It was known we were here—Dollmannand Grimm knew it; the crew of the Medusa knew it; the crewof the Kormoran knew it; the man on the pier, whether hecared or not, knew it. But none of them knew Davies as I knew him.Would anyone dream for an instant——?

"Stop a second," said Davies; "give me two minutes." He whippedout the German chart. "Where exactly should we go?" ("Exactly!" Theword tickled me hugely.)

"To the depôt, of course; it's our only chance."

"Listen then—there are two routes: the outside one by theopen sea, right round Juist, and doubling south—the simplest,but the longest; the depôt's at the south point of Memmert, andMemmert's nearly two miles long." [See ChartB]

"How far would that way be?"

"Sixteen miles good. And we should have to row in a breakingswell most of the way, close to land."

"Out of the question; it's too public, too, if it clears. Thesteamer went that way, and will come back that way. We must goinside over the sands. Am I dreaming, though? Can you possibly findthe way?"

"I shouldn't wonder. But I don't believe you see the hitch. It'sthe time and the falling tide. High water was about 8.15:it's now 10.15, and all those sands are drying off. We must crossthe See Gat and strike that boomed channel, the Memmert Balje;strike it, freeze on to it—can't cut off an inch—andpass that 'watershed' you see there before it's too late. It's aninfernally bad one, I can see. Not even a dinghy will cross it foran hour each side of low water."

"Well, how far is the 'watershed'?"

"Good Lord! What are we talking for? Change, man, change! Talkwhile we're changing." (He began flinging off his shore 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. Andthen—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 onthe way there it doesn't matter by this route; we shall be milesfrom land."

"What about getting back?"

"We shall have a rising tide, anyway. If the fog lasts—canyou manage in a fog and dark?"

"The dark makes it no more difficult, if we've a light to seethe compass and chart by. You trim the binnacle lamp—no, theriding-light. Now give me the scissors, and don't speak a word forten minutes. Meanwhile, think it out, and load the dinghy—(byJove! though, don't make a sound)—some grub and whisky, theboat-compass, lead, riding-light, matches, small boathook,grapnel and line."

"Foghorn?"

"Yes, and the whistle too."

"A gun?"

"What for?"

"We're after ducks."

"All right. And muffle the rowlocks with cotton-waste."

I left Davies absorbed in the charts, and softly went about myown 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 wordsall the pros and cons that I had balanced. It was an impulse thatdrove me forward; but an impulse founded on reason, with just atinge, perhaps, of superstition; for the quest had begun in a fogand might fitly end in one.

It was twenty-five minutes to eleven when we noiselessly pushedoff. "Let her drift," whispered Davies, "the ebb'll carry her pastthe pier."

We slid by the Dulcibella, and she disappeared. Then wesat without speech or movement for about five minutes, while thegurgle of tide through piles approached and passed. The dinghyappeared to be motionless, just as a balloon in the clouds mayappear to its occupants to be motionless, though urged by a currentof air. In reality we were driving out of the Riff Gat into the SeeGat. The dinghy swayed to a light swell.

"Now, pull," said Davies, under his breath; "keep it long andsteady, above all steady—both arms with equal force."

I was on the bow-thwart; he vis-à-vis to me on the sternseat, his left hand behind him on the tiller, his right forefingeron a small square of paper which lay on his knees; this was asection cut out from the big German chart. [See Chart B] On the midship-thwart between us laythe compass and a watch. Between these three objects—compass,watch, and chart—his eyes darted constantly, never looking upor out, save occasionally for a sharp glance over the side at theflying bubbles, to see if I was sustaining a regular speed. My dutywas to be his automaton, the human equivalent of a marine enginewhose revolutions can be counted and used as data by the navigator.My arms must be regular as twin pistons; the energy that drove themas controllable as steam. It was a hard ideal to reach, for thecomplex mortal tends to rely on all the senses God has given him,so unfitting himself for mechanical exactitude when a sense(eyesight, in my case) fails him. At first it was constantly "left"or "right" from Davies, accompanied by a bubbling from therudder.

"This won't do, too much helm," said Davies, without looking up."Keep your stroke, but listen to me. Can you see the compasscard?"

"When I come forward."

"Take your time, and don't get flurried, but each time you comeforward have a good look at it. The course is sou'-west half-west.You take the opposite, north-east half-east, and keep herstern on that. It'll be rough, but it'll save some helm, andgive me a hand free if I want it."

I did as he said, not without effort, and our progress graduallybecame smoother, till he had no need to speak at all. The onlysound now was one like the gentle simmer of a saucepan away toport—the lisp of surf I knew it to be—and the muffledgrunt of the rowlocks. I broke the silence once to say "It's veryshallow." I had touched sand with my right scull.

"Don't talk," said Davies.

About half an hour passed, and then he added sounding to hisother occupations. "Plump" went the lead at regular intervals, andhe steered with his hip while pulling in the line. Very little ofit went out at first, then less still. Again I struck bottom, and,glancing aside, saw weeds. Suddenly he got a deep cast, and thedinghy, freed from the slight drag which shallow water alwaysinflicts on a small boat, leapt buoyantly forward. At the sametime, I knew by boils on the smooth surface that we were in astrong tideway.

"The Buse Tief," [See Chart B]muttered Davies. "Row hard now, and steady as a clock."

For a hundred yards or more I bent to my sculls and made herfly. Davies was getting six fathom casts, till, just as suddenly asit had deepened, the water shoaled—ten feet, six, three,one—the dinghy grounded.

"Good!" said Davies. "Back her off! Pull your right only." Thedinghy spun round with her bow to N.N.W. "Both arms together! Don'tyou worry about the compass now; just pull, and listen for orders.There's a tricky bit coming."

He put aside the chart, kicked the lead under the seat, and,kneeling on the dripping coils of line, sounded continuously withthe butt-end of the boathook, a stumpy little implement, notched atintervals of a foot, and often before used for the same purpose.All at once I was aware that a check had come, for the dinghyswerved 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, whosedirection Davies verified by the compass. Then for half a minute hegave himself up to concentrated thought. What struck me most abouthim was that he never for a moment strained his eyes through thefog; a useless exercise (for five yards or so was the radius of ourvision) which, however, I could not help indulging in, while Irested. He made up his mind, and we were off again, straight andswift as an arrow this time, and in water deeper than the boathook.I could see by his face that he was taking some bold expedientwhose issue hung in the balance.... Again we touched mud, and theartist's joy of achievement shone in his eyes. Backing away, weheaded west, and for the first time he began to gaze into thefog.

"There's one!" he snapped at last. "Easy all!"

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

"Rest for three minutes now," he said. "We're in fairly goodtime."

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

We had reached the eastern outlet of Memmert Balje, the channelwhich runs east and west behind Juist Island, direct to the southpoint of Memmert. How we had reached it was incomprehensible to meat the time, but the reader will understand by comparing mynarrative with the dotted line on the chart. I add this briefexplanation, that Davies's method had been to cross the channelcalled the Buse Tief, and strike the other side of it at a pointwell south of the outlet of the Memmert Balje (in view ofthe northward set of the ebb-tide), and then to drop back north andfeel his way to the outlet. The check was caused by a deepindentation in the Itzendorf Flat; a cul-de-sac, with a widemouth, which Davies was very near mistaking for the Balje itself.We had no time to skirt dents so deep as that; hence the dashacross its mouth with the chance of missing the upper lipaltogether, and of either being carried out to sea (for theslightest error was cumulative) or straying fruitlessly along theedge.

The next three miles were the most critical of all. Theyincluded the "watershed", whose length and depth were doubtful;they included, too, the crux of the whole passage, a spot where thechannel forks, our own branch continuing west, and another branchdiverging from it north-westward. We must row against time, and yetwe must negotiate that crux. Add to this that the current wasagainst us till the watershed was crossed; that the tide was justat its most baffling stage, too low to allow us to risk short cuts,and too high to give definition to the banks of the channel; andthat the compass was no aid whatever for the minor bends. "Time'sup," said Davies, and on we went. I was hugging the comfortablethought that we should now have booms on our starboard for thewhole distance; on our starboard, I say, for experience had taughtus that all channels running parallel with the coast and islandswere uniformly boomed on the northern side. Anyone less confidentthan Davies would have succumbed to the temptation of slavishlyrelying on these marks, creeping from one to the other, and wastingprecious time. But Davies knew our friend the "boom" and hiseccentricities too well; and preferred to trust to his sense oftouch, which no fog in the world could impair. If we happened tosight one, well and good, we should know which side of the channelwe were on. But even this contingent advantage he deliberatelysacrificed after a short distance, for he crossed over to thesouth or unboomed side and steered and sounded along it,using the ltzendorf Flat as his handrail, so to speak. He wascompelled to do this, he told me afterwards, in view of the crux,where the converging lines of booms would have involved us inirremediable confusion. Our branch was the southern one, and itfollowed that we must use the southern bank, and defer obtainingany help from booms until sure we were past that critical spot.

For an hour we were at the extreme strain, I of physicalexertion, he of mental. I could not get into a steady swing, forlittle checks were constant. My right scull was for ever skiddingon mud or weeds, and the backward suck of shoal water clogged ourprogress. Once we were both of us out in the slime tugging at thedinghy's sides; then in again, blundering on. I found the fogbemusing, lost all idea of time and space, and felt like asenseless marionette kicking and jerking to a mad music withouttune or time. The misty form of Davies as he sat with his right armswinging rhythmically forward and back, was a clockwork figure asmad as myself, but didactic and gibbering in his madness. Then theboathook he wielded with a circular sweep began to take grotesqueshapes in my heated fancy; now it was the antenna of a gropinginsect, now the crank of a cripple's self-propelled perambulator,now the alpenstock of a lunatic mountaineer, who sits in his chairand climbs and climbs to some phantom "watershed". At the back ofsuch mind as was left me lodged two insistent thoughts: "we musthurry on," "we are going wrong." As to the latter, take a link-boythrough a London fog and you will experience the same thing: healways goes the way you think is wrong. "We're rowing back!"I remember shouting to Davies once, having become aware that it wasnow my left scull which splashed against obstructions. "Rubbish,"said Davies. "I've crossed over"; and I relapsed.

By degrees I returned to sanity, thanks to improved conditions.It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the state of thetide, though it threatened us with total failure, had thecompensating advantage that the lower it fell the more constrictedand defined became our channel; till the time came when the compassand boathook were alike unnecessary, because our handrail, themuddy brink of the channel, was visible to the eye, close to us; onour right hand always now, for the crux was far behind, and thenorthern side was now our guide. All that remained was to press onwith might and main ere the bed of the creek dried.

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

"I must have a rest," I gasped.

"Well, I think we're over it," said Davies.

We stopped the dinghy dead, and he stabbed over the side withthe boathook. It passed gently astern of us, and even my bewilderedbrain took in the meaning of that.

"Three feet and the current with us. Well over it," hesaid. "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. Asfor muscle, we were both in hard condition. He was fresh, and whatdistress I felt was mainly due to spasmodic exertion culminating inthat desperate spurt. As for the fog, it had more than once shown afaint tendency to lift, growing thinner and more luminous, in themanner of fogs, always to settle down again, heavy as a quilt.

Note the spot marked "second rest" (approximately correct,Davies says) and the course of the channel from that pointwestward. You will see it broadening and deepening to thedimensions of a great river, and finally merging in the estuary ofthe Ems. Note, too, that its northern boundary, the edge of the nowuncovered Nordland Sand, leads, with one interruption (markedA), direct to Memmert, and is boomed throughout. You will thenunderstand why Davies made so light of the rest of his problem.Compared with the feats he had performed, it was child's play, forhe 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—observeour dotted line—he made two daring departures from it, thefirst purely to save time, the second partly to save time andpartly to avoid the very awkward spot marked A, where a creek withbooms and a little delta of its own interrupts the even bank.During the first of these departures—the shortest but mostbrilliant—he let me do the rowing, and devoted himself to theniceties of the course; during the second, and through both theintermediate stages, he rowed himself, with occasional pauses toinspect the chart. We fell into a long, measured stroke, andcovered the miles rapidly, scarcely exchanging a single word till,at the end of a long pull through vacancy, Davies saidsuddenly:

"Now where are we to land?"

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

"Where are we?"

"A quarter of a mile from Memmert."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly three."

CHAPTER XXII.
The Quartette

His tour de force was achieved, and for the momentsomething like collapse set in.

"What in the world have we come here for?" he muttered; "I feela bit giddy."

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

I alone was to land. Davies demurred to this out of loyalty, butcommon sense, coinciding with a strong aversion of his own, settledthe matter. Two were more liable to detection than one. I spoke thelanguage well, and if challenged could cover my retreat with agruff word or two; in my woollen overalls, sea-boots, oilskin coat,with a sou'-wester pulled well over my eyes, I should pass in a fogfor a Frisian. Davies must mind the dinghy; but how was I to regainit? 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 shorewithout using it, and lay it on the ground for steadiness. Takethis scrap of chart, too—it may come in useful; but you can'tmiss the depôt, it looks to be close to the shore. How long willyou be?"

"How long have I got?"

"The young flood's making—has been for nearly anhour—that bank (he measured it with his eye) will be coveringin an hour and a half."

"That ought to be enough."

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

"Wait a bit, we must settle a place to meet at in case I'm lateand can't reach you here."

"Don't be late. We've got to get back to the yacht beforewe're missed."

"But I may have to hide and wait till dark—the fog mayclear."

"We were fools to come, I believe," said Davies, gloomily."There are no meeting-places in a place like this. Here'sthe best I can see on the chart—a big triangular beaconmarked on the very point of Memmert. You'll pass it."

"All right. I'm off."

"Good luck," said Davies, faintly.

I stepped out, climbed a miry glacis of five or six feet,reached hard wet sand, and strode away with the sluggish ripple ofthe Balje on my left hand. A curtain dropped between me and Davies,and I was alone—alone, but how I thrilled to feel the firmsand 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 fogbriskly.

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

"Ship at anchor," I said to myself. "Six bells in the afternoonwatch." I knew the Balje was here a deep roadstead, where a vesselentering the Eastern Ems might very well anchor to ride out afog.

I was just stepping forward when another sound followed from thesame quarter, a bugle-call this time. Then I understood—onlymen-of-war sound bugles—the Blitz was here then; andvery natural, too, I thought, and strode on. The sand was growingdrier, the water farther beneath me; then came a thin black ribbonof weed—high-water mark. A few cautious steps to the rightand I touched tufts of marram grass. It was Memmert. I pulled outthe 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 ribbonof weed, keeping it just in view, but walking on the verge of thegrass for the sake of silence. All at once I almost tripped over amassive iron bar; others, a rusty network of them, grew into beingabove and around me, like the arms of a ghostly polyp.

"What infernal spider's web is this?" I thought, and stumbledclear. I had strayed into the base of a gigantic tripod, its gauntlegs stayed and cross-stayed, its apex lost in fog; the beacon, Iremembered. A hundred yards farther and I was down on my kneesagain, listening with might and main; for several little soundswere in the air—voices, the rasp of a boat's keel, thewhistling of a tune. These were straight ahead. More to the left,seaward, that is, I had aural evidence of the presence of asteamboat—a small one, for the hiss of escaping steam was lowdown. On my right front I as yet heard nothing, but the depôt mustbe there.

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

"Play the game," I said to myself. "Nobody expects you; nobodywill recognise you."

I advanced in rapid stages of ten yards or so, while grassdisappeared and soft sand took its place, pitted everywhere withfootmarks. I trod carefully, for obstructions began to showthemselves—an anchor, a heap of rusty cable; then a boatbottom upwards, and, lying on it, a foul old meerschaum pipe. Ipaused here and strained my ears, for there were sounds in manydirections; the same whistling (behind me now), heavy footsteps infront, and somewhere beyond—fifty yards away, Ireckoned—a buzz of guttural conversation; from the samequarter there drifted to my nostrils the acrid odour of coarsetobacco. Then a door banged.

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

I now became aware that I was on a beaten track. These meetingswere hazardous, so I inclined aside, but not without misgivings,for the path led towards the buzz of talk and the banging door, andthese were my only guides to the depôt. Suddenly, and much before Iexpected it, I knew rather than saw that a wall was in front of me;now it was visible, the side of a low building of corrugated iron.A pause to reconnoitre was absolutely necessary; but the knot oftalkers might have heard my footsteps, and I must at all costs notsuggest the groping of a stranger. I lit amatch—two—and sucked heavily (as I had seen navvies do)at my pipe, studying the trend of the wall by reference to thesounds. There was a stale dottle wedged in the bowl, and loathsomefumes resulted. Just then the same door banged again; another name,which I forget, was called out. I decided that I was at the end ofa rectangular building which I pictured as like an Aldershot "hut",and that the door I heard was round the corner to my left. A knotof men must be gathered there, entering it by turns. Havingexpectorated noisily, I followed the tin wall to my right,and turning a corner strolled leisurely on, passing signs ofdomesticity, a washtub, a water-butt, then a tiled approach to anopen door. I now was aware of the corner of a second building, alsoof zinc, parallel to the first, but taller, for I could only justsee the eave. I was just going to turn off to this as a morepromising field for exploration, when I heard a window open aheadof me in my original building.

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

diagram, Memmert Salvage Depot

My geography was clear now in one respect. That window belongedto the same room as the banging door (B); for I distinctly heardthe latter open and shut again, opposite me on the other side ofthe building. It struck me that it might be interesting to see intothat room. "Play the game," I reminded myself, and retreated a fewyards back on tiptoe, then turned and sauntered coolly past thewindow, puffing my villainous pipe and taking a long deliberatelook into the interior as I passed—the more deliberate thatat the first instant I realised that nobody inside was disturbinghimself about me. As I had expected (in view of the fog and thetime) there was artificial light within. My mental photograph wasas follows: a small room with varnished deal walls and furnishedlike an office; in the far right-hand corner a counting-house desk,Grimm sitting at it on a high stool, side-face to me, countingmoney; opposite him in an awkward attitude a burly fellow inseaman's dress holding a diver's helmet. In the middle of the rooma deal table, and on it something big and black. Lolling on chairsnear it, their backs to me and their faces turned towards the deskand the diver, two men—von Brüning and an older man with abald yellow head (Dollmann's companion on the steamer, beyond adoubt). On another chair, with its back actually tilted against thewindow, Dollmann.

Such were the principal features of the scene; for details I hadto make another inspection. Stooping low, I crept back, quiet as acat, till I was beneath the window, and, as I calculated, directlybehind Dollmann's chair. Then with great caution I raised my head.There was only one pair of eyes in the room that I feared in theleast, and that was Grimm's, who sat in profile to me, farthestaway. I instantly put Dollmann's back between Grimm and me, andthen made my scrutiny. As I made it, I could feel a cold sweatdistilling on my forehead and tickling my spine; not from fear orexcitement, but from pure ignominy. For beyond all doubt I waspresent at the meeting of a bona-fide salvage company. Itwas pay-day, and the directors appeared to be taking stock of workdone; that was all.

Over the door was an old engraving of a two-decker under fullsail; pinned on the wall a chart and the plan of a ship. Relics ofthe wrecked frigate abounded. On a shelf above the stove was asmall pyramid of encrusted cannon-balls, and supported on nails atodd places on the walls were corroded old pistols, and what I tookto be the remains of a sextant. In a corner of the floor sat ahoary little carronade, carriage and all. None of these thingsaffected me so much as a pile of lumber on the floor, not firewoodbut unmistakable wreck-wood, black as bog-oak, still caked inplaces with the mud of ages. Nor was it the mere sight of thislumber that dumbfounded me. It was the fact that a fragment of it,a balk of curved timber garnished with some massive bolts, lay onthe table, and was evidently an object of earnest interest. Thediver had turned and was arguing with gestures over it; von Brüningand Grimm were pressing another view. The diver shook his headfrequently, finally shrugged his shoulders, made a salutation, andleft the room. Their movements had kept me ducking my head prettyfrequently, but I now grew almost reckless as to whether I was seenor not. All the weaknesses of my theory crowded on me—thearguments Davies had used at Bensersiel; Fräulein Dollmann'sthoughtless talk; the ease (comparatively) with which I had reachedthis spot, not a barrier to cross or a lock to force; the publicityof their passage to Memmert by Dollmann, his friend, and Grimm; andnow this glimpse of business-like routine. In a few moments I sankfrom depth to depth of scepticism. Where were my mines, torpedoes,and submarine boats, and where my imperial conspirators? Was goldafter all at the bottom of this sordid mystery? Dollmann after alla commonplace criminal? The ladder of proof I had mounted totteredand shook beneath me. "Don't be a fool," said the faint voice ofreason. "There are your four men. Wait."

Two more employés came into the room in quick successionand received wages; one looking like a fireman, the other of asuperior type, the skipper of a tug, say. There was anotherdiscussion with this latter over the balk of wreck-wood, and thisman, too, shrugged his shoulders. His departure appeared to end themeeting. Grimm shut up a ledger, and I shrank down on my knees, fora general shifting of chairs began. At the same time, from theother side of the building, I heard my knot of men retreatingbeachwards, spitting and chatting as they went. Presently someonewalked across the room towards my window. I sidled away on allfours, rose and flattened myself erect against the wall, asickening despondency on me; my intention to slink away south-eastas soon as the coast was clear. But the sound that came nextpricked me like an electric shock; it was the tinkle and scrape ofcurtain-rings.

Quick as thought I was back in my old position, to find my viewbarred by a cretonne curtain. It was in one piece, with no chinkfor my benefit, but it did not hang straight, bulging towards meunder the pressure of something—human shoulders by the shape.Dollmann, I concluded, was still in his old place. I now wasexasperated to find that I could scarcely hear a word that wassaid, not even by pressing my ear against the glass. It was notthat the speakers were of set purpose hushing theirvoices—they used an ordinary tone for intimatediscussion—but the glass and curtain deadened the actualwords. Still, I was soon able to distinguish generalcharacteristics. Von Brüning's voice—the only one I had everheard before—I recognised at once; he was on the left of thetable, and Dollmann's I knew from his position. The third was aharsh croak, belonging to the old gentleman whom, for convenience,I shall prematurely begin to call Herr Böhme. It was too old avoice to be Grimm's; besides, it had the ring of authority, and wasdealing at the moment in sharp interrogations. Three of itssentences I caught in their entirety. "When was that?" "They wentno farther?" and "Too long; out of the question." Dollmann's voice,though nearest to me, was the least audible of all. It was a doggedmonotone, and what was that odd movement of the curtain at hisback? Yes, his hands were behind him clutching and kneading a foldof the cretonne. "You are feeling uncomfortable, my friend," was mycomment. Suddenly he threw back his head—I saw the dent ofit—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 themboth."

(You will not be surprised to learn that I instantly looked atmy watch—though it takes long to write what I havedescribed—but the time was only a quarter to four.) He addedsomething about the fog, and his chair creaked. Ducking promptly Iheard the curtain-rings jar, and: "Thick as ever."

"Your report, Herr Dollmann," said Böhme, curtly. Dollmann leftthe window and moved his chair up to the table; the other two drewin theirs and settled themselves.

"Chatham," said Dollmann, as if announcing a heading. Itwas an easy word to catch, rapped out sharp, and you can imaginehow 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 overit, while Dollmann explained something. But now my exasperationbecame acute, for not a syllable more reached me. Squatting back onmy heels, I cast about for expedients. Should I steal round and trythe door? Too dangerous. Climb to the roof and listen down thestove-pipe? Too noisy, and generally hopeless. I tried for adownward purchase on the upper half of the window, which was of thesimple sort in two sections, working vertically. No use; itresisted gentle pressure, would start with a sudden jar if I forcedit. I pulled out Davies's knife and worked the point of the bladebetween sash and frame to give it play—no result; but theknife was a nautical one, with a marlin-spike as well as a bigblade.

Just now the door within opened and shut again, and I heardsteps approaching round the corner to my right. I had the presenceof mind not to lose a moment, but moved silently away (blessing thedeep Frisian sand) round the corner of the big parallel building.Someone whom I could not see walked past till his boots clatteredon tiles, next resounded on boards. "Grimm in his living-room," Iinferred. The precious minutes ebbed away—five, ten, fifteen.Had he gone for good? I dared not return otherwise.Eighteen—he was coming out! This time I stole forward boldlywhen the man had just passed, dimly saw a figure, and clearlyenough the glint of a white paper he was holding. He made hiscircuit and re-entered the room.

Here I felt and conquered a relapse to scepticism. "If this isan important conclave why don't they set guards?" Answer, the onlypossible one, "Because they stand alone. Their employés,like everyone we had met hitherto, know nothing. The realobject of this salvage company (a poor speculation, I opined) issolely 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 againstthat even stream of low confidential talk. But I would not give up.Fate and the fog had brought me here, the one solitary soul perhapswho by the chain of circ*mstances had both the will and theopportunity to wrest their secret from these four men.

The marlin-spike! Where the lower half of the window met thesill it sank into a shallow groove. I thrust the point of the spikedown into the interstice between sash and frame and heaved with aslowly increasing force, which I could regulate to the fraction ofan ounce, on this powerful lever. The sash gave, with the faintestpossible protest, and by imperceptible degrees I lifted it to thetop of the groove, and the least bit above it, say half an inch inall; but it made an appreciable difference to the sounds within, aswhen you remove your foot from a piano's soft pedal. I could do nomore, for there was no further fulcrum for the spike, and I darednot gamble away what I had won by using my hands.

Hope sank again when I placed my cheek on the damp sill, and myear to the chink. My men were close round the table referring topapers which I heard rustle. Dollmann's "report" was evidentlyover, and I rarely heard his voice; Grimm's occasionally, vonBrüning's and Böhme's frequently; but, as before, it was the latteronly that I could ever count on for an intelligible word. For,unfortunately, the villains of the piece plotted without any regardto dramatic fitness or to my interests. Immersed in a subject withwhich they were all familiar, they were allusive, elliptic, andpersistently technical. Many of the words I did catch were unknownto me. The rest were, for the most part, either letters of thealphabet or statistical figures, of depth, distance, and, once ortwice, of time. The letters of the alphabet recurred often, andseemed, as far as I could make out, to represent the key to thecipher. The numbers clustering round them were mostly very small,with decimals. What maddened me most was the scarcity of plainnouns.

To report what I heard to the reader would be impossible; sochaotic 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 nebulousclassification I involved. The letters ran from A to G, and my bestcontinuous chance came when Böhme, reading rapidly from a paper, Ithink, went through the letters, backwards, from G, adding remarksto each; thus: "G. . . completed." "F. . . bad. . . 1.3 (metres?).. .2.5 (kilometres?)." "E . . . thirty-two. . . 1.2." "D. . . 3weeks. . . thirty." "C. . ." and so on.

Another time he went through this list again, only naming eachletter himself, and receiving laconic answers fromGrimm—answers which seemed to be numbers, but I could not besure. For minutes together I caught nothing but the scratching ofpens and inarticulate mutterings. But out of the muck-heap I pickedfive pearls—four sibilant nouns and a name that I knewbefore. The nouns were "Schleppboote" (tugs); "Wassertiefe" (depthof water); "Eisenbahn" (railway); "Lotsen" (pilots). The name, alsosibilant and thus easier to hear, was "Esens".

Two or three times I had to stand back and ease my cramped neck,and on each occasion I looked at my watch, for I was listeningagainst time, just as we had rowed against time. We were going tobe asked to supper, and must be back aboard the yacht in time toreceive the invitation. The fog still brooded heavily and thelight, always bad, was growing worse. How would they getback? How had they come from Juist? Could we forestall them?Questions of time, tide, distance—just the odious sort ofsums I was unfit to cope with—were distracting my attentionwhen it should have been wholly elsewhere.4.20—4.25—now it was past 4.30 when Davies said thebank would cover. I should have to make for the beacon; but it wasfatally near that steamboat path, etc., and I still at intervalsheard voices from there. It must have been about 4.35 when therewas another shifting of chairs within. Then someone rose, collectedpapers, and went out; someone else, without rising(therefore Grimm), followed him.

There was silence in the room for a minute, and after that, forthe first time, I heard some plain colloquial German, with noaccompaniment of scratching or rustling. "I must wait for this," Ithought, and waited.

"He insists on coming," said Böhme.

"Ach!" (an ejacul*tion of surprise and protest from vonBrüning).

"I said the 25th."

"Why?"

"The tide serves well. The night-train, of course. Tell Grimm tobe ready——" (An inaudible question from vonBrüning.)

"No, any weather." A laugh from von Brüning and some words Icould 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 cametowards the window. I leapt aside as I heard it thrown up, andcovered by the noise backed into safety. Von Brüning called"Grimm!" and that, and the open window, decided me that my line ofadvance was now too dangerous to retreat by. The only alternativewas to make a circuit round the bigger of the twobuildings—and an interminable circuit it seemed—and allthe while I knew my compass-course "south-east" was growingnugatory. I passed a padlocked door, two corners, and faced thevoid of fog. Out came the compass, and I steadied myself for thesum. "South-east before—I'm farther to the eastwardnow—east will about do"; and off I went, with an error offour whole points, over tussocks and deep sand. The beach seemedmuch farther off than I had thought, and I began to get alarmed,puzzled over the compass several times, and finally realised that Ihad lost my way. I had the sense not to make matters worse bytrying to find it again, and, as the lesser of two evils, blew mywhistle, softly at first, then louder. The bray of a foghornsounded right behind me. I whistled again and then ran formy life, the horn sounding at intervals. In three or four minutes Iwas on the beach and in the dinghy.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A Change of Tactics

We pushed off without a word, and paddled out of sight of thebeach. A voice was approaching, hailing us. "Hail back," whisperedDavies; "pretend we're a galliot."

"Ho-a," I shouted, "where am I?"

"Off Memmert," came back. "Where are you bound?"

"Delfzyl," whispered Davies.

"Delf-zyl," I bawled.

A sentence ending with "anchor" was returned.

"The flood's tearing east," whispered Davies; "sit still."

We heard no more, and, after a few minutes' drifting, "Whatluck?" said Davies.

"One or two clues, and an invitation to supper."

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

"How will they get back?" said Davies; "if the fog laststhe steamer's sure to be late."

"We can count for nothing," I answered. "There was some littlesteamboat off the depôt, and the fog may lift. Which is ourquickest way?"

"At this tide, a bee-line to Norderney by compass; we shall havewater over all the banks."

He had all his preparations made, the lamp lit in advance, thecompass in position, and we started at once; he at the bow-oarwhere he had better control over the boat's nose; lamp and compasson the floor between us. Twilight thickened into darkness—achoking, pasty darkness—and still we sped unfalteringly overthat trackless waste, sitting and swinging in our little pool ofstifled orange light. To drown fatigue and suspense I conned overmy clues, and tried to carve into my memory every fugitive word Ihad overheard.

"What are there seven of round here?" I called back to Daviesonce (thinking of A to G). "Sorry," I added, for no answercame.

"I see a star," was my next word, after a long interval. "Nowit's gone. There it is again! Right aft!"

"That's Borkum light," said Davies, presently; "the fog'slifting." A keen wind from the west struck our faces, and asswiftly as it had come the fog rolled away from us, in one mightymass, stripping clean and pure the starry dome of heaven, stillbright with the western after-glow, and beginning to redden in theeast to the rising moon. Norderney light was flashing ahead, andDavies could take his tired eyes from the pool of light.

"Damn!" was all he uttered in the way of gratitude for thismercy, and I felt very much the same; for in a fog Davies in adinghy was a match for a steamer; in a clear he lost hishandicap.

It was a quarter to seven. "An hour'll do it, if we buck up," hepronounced, after taking a rough bearing with the two lights. Hepointed out a star to me, which we were to keep exactly astern, andagain I applied to their labour my aching back and smartingpalms.

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

"What are there seven of hereabouts?"

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

"Maybe."

Then followed the most singular of all our confabulations. Twomemories are better than one, and the sooner I carved the cipherinto his memory as well as mine the better record we should have.So, with rigid economy of breath, I snapped out all my story, andanswered his breathless questions. It saved me from beingmesmerised by the star, and both of us from the consciousness ofover-fatigue.

"Spying at Chatham, the blackguard?" he hissed.

"What do you make of it?" I asked.

"Nothing about battleships, mines, forts?" he said.

"No."

"Nothing about the Ems, Emden, Wilhelmshaven?"

"No."

"Nothing about transports?"

"No."

"I believe—I was right—after all—something todo—with the channels—behind islands."

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

"Esens," I protested; "that town behind Bensersiel."

"Wassertiefe, Lotsen, Schleppboote," spluttered Davies.

"Kilometre—Eisenbahn," from me, and so on.

I should earn the just execration of the reader if I continuedto report such a dialogue. Suffice to say that we realised verysoon that the substance of the plot was still a riddle. On theother hand, there was fresh scent, abundance of it; and thequestion was already taking shape—were we to follow it up orrevert to last night's decision and strike with what weapons wehad? It was a pressing question, too, the last of many—wasthere to be no end to the emergencies of this crowdedday?—pressing for reasons I could not define, while convincedthat we must be ready with an answer by supper-time to-night.

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

"Light astern," I said, thickly. "Two—white and red."

"Steamer," said Davies; "going south though."

"Three now."

A neat triangle of gems—topaz, ruby, andemerald—hung steady behind us.

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

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

"Easy," said Davies, "I seem to know those lights—theBlitz's launch—don't let's be caught rowing likemadmen in a muck sweat. Paddle inshore a bit." He was right, and,as in a dream, I saw hurrying and palpitating up the same littlepinnace that had towed us out of Bensersiel.

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

"Three of them behind the hood," said Davies: "what are we todo?"

"Follow," I answered, and essayed a feeble stroke, but the bladescuttered over the surface.

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

"Our shore clothes—lying about."

"Are you up to talking?"

"No; but we must. The least suspicion'll do for us now."

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

He extinguished the lantern, lit a pipe, and then rowed slowlyon, while I sat on a slack heap in the stern and devoted my lastresources of will to the emancipation of the spirit from the tiredflesh.

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

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

"Good evening, sir," said a sailor, who was fending off theyacht with a boathook. "It's Commander von Brüning's launch. Ithink the gentlemen want to see you."

Before we could answer, an exclamation of: "Why, here they are!"came from the deck of the Dulcibella, and the dim form ofvon Brüning himself emerged from the companionway. There wassomething of a scuffle down below, which the Commander nearlysucceeded in drowning by the breeziness of his greeting. Meanwhile,the ladder creaked under fresh weight, and Dollmann appeared.

"Is that you, Herr Davies?" he said.

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

I must explain that we had floated up between the yacht and thelaunch, whose sailors had passed her a little aside in order togive us room. Her starboard side-light was just behind and aboveus, pouring its green rays obliquely over the deck of theDulcibella, while we and the dinghy were in deep shadowbetween. The most studied calculation could not have secured usmore favourable conditions for a moment which I had alwaysdreaded—the meeting of Davies and Dollmann. The former,having shortened his sculls, just sat where he was, half turnedtowards the yacht and looking up at his enemy. No lineament of hisown face could have been visible to the latter, while thosepitiless green rays—you know their ravaging effect on thehuman physiognomy—struck full on Dollmann's face. It was myfirst fair view of it at close quarters, and, secure in mybackground of gloom, I feasted with a luxury of superstitiousabhorrence on the livid smiling mask that for a few moments stoopedpeering down towards Davies. One of the caprices of the crude lightwas to obliterate, or at any rate so penetrate, beard andmoustache, as to reveal in outline lips and chin, the features inwhich defects of character are most surely betrayed, especiallywhen your victim smiles. Accuse me, if you will, of stooping tomelodramatic embroidery; object that my own prejudiced fancycontributed to the result; but I can, nevertheless, never effacethe impression of malignant perfidy and base passion, exaggeratedto caricature, that I received in those few instants. Anothercaprice of the light was to identify the man with the portrait ofhim when younger and clean-shaven, in the frontispiece of his ownbook; and another still, the most repulsively whimsical of all, wasto call forth a strong resemblance to the sweet young girl who hadbeen with us yesterday.

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

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"Oh, rowing about since the fog cleared," said Davies.

I suppose he thought that evasion would pass muster, but as hespoke, I noticed to my horror that a stray beam of light wasplaying on the bunch of white cotton-waste that adorned one of therowlocks: for we had forgotten to remove these tell-taleappendages. So I added:

"After ducks again"; and, lifting one of the guns, let the lightflash on its barrel. To my own ears my voice sounded husky anddistant.

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

"No," said Davies; "but it ought to be a good time aftersunset——"

"What, with a rising tide and the banks covered?"

"We saw some," said Davies, sullenly.

"I tell you what, my zealous young sportsmen, you're rash toleave your boat at anchor here after dark without a light. I cameaboard to find your lamp and set it."

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

"To see to shoot by?"

We laughed uncomfortably, and Davies compassed a wonderfulGerman phrase to the effect that "it might come in useful". Happilythe matter went no farther, for the position was a strained one atthe best, and would not bear lengthening. The launch wentalongside, and the invaders evacuated British soil, looking, forall von Brüning's flippant nonchalance, a rather crestfallen party.So much so, that, acute as was my anxiety, I took courage towhisper to Davies, while the transhipment of Herr Böhme wasproceeding: "Ask Dollmann to stay while we dress."

"Why?" he whispered.

"Go on."

"I say, Herr Dollmann," said Davies, "won't you stay on boardwith us while we dress? There's a lot to tell you, and—and wecan follow on with you when we're ready."

Dollmann had not yet stepped into the launch. "With pleasure,"he said; but there followed an ominous silence, broken by vonBrüning.

"Oh, come along, Dollmann, and let them alone," he saidbrusquely. "You'll be horribly in the way down there, and we shallnever get any supper if you keep them yarning."

"And it's now a quarter-past eight o'clock," grumbled Herr Böhmefrom his corner behind the hood. Dollmann submitted, and excusedhimself, and the launch steamed away.

"I think I twig," said Davies, as he helped, almost hoisted, meaboard. "Rather risky though—eh?"

"I knew they'd object—only wanted to make sure."

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

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

For my part I went straight to the bookshelf.

"Does anything strike you about this?" I asked, kneeling on thesofa.

"Logbook's shifted," said Davies. "I'll swear it was at the endbefore."

"That doesn't matter. Anything else?"

"By Jove!—where's Dollmann's book?"

"It's here all right, but not where it should be." I had beenreading it, you remember, overnight, and in the morning hadreplaced it in full view among the other books. I now found itbehind them, in a wrenched attitude, which showed that someone whohad no time to spare had pushed it roughly inwards.

"What do you make of that?" said Davies.

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

"They don't trust Dollmann," I said. "I spotted that at Memmerteven."

"How?"

"First, when they were talking about you and me. He was on hisdefence, and in a deuce of a funk, too. Böhme was pressing himhard. Again, at the end, when he left the room followed by Grimm,who I'm certain was sent to watch him. It was while he was awaythat the other two arranged that rendezvous for the night of the25th. And again just now, when you asked him to stay. I believeit's working out as I thought it would. Von Brüning, and throughhim Böhme (who is the "engineer from Bremen"), know the story ofthat short cut and suspect that it was an attempt on your life.Dollmann daren't confess to that, because, morality apart, it couldonly have been prompted by extreme necessity—that is, by theknowledge that you were really dangerous, and not merely aninquisitive stranger. Now we know his motive; but they don'tyet. The position of that book proves it."

"He shoved it in?"

"To prevent them seeing it. There's no earthly reason whythey should have hidden it."

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

"At any rate he thinks they don't; we can't say more thanthat."

"And what does he think about me—and you?"

"That's the point. Ten to one he's in tortures of doubt, andwould give a fortune to have five minutes' talk alone with you tosee how the land lies and get your version of the short cutincident. But they won't let him. They want to watch him in ourcompany and us in his; you see it's an interesting reunion for youand him."

"Well, let's get into these beastly clothes for it," groanedDavis. "I shall have a plunge overboard."

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

"I believe I know what happened just now," said I, as we pliedrough towels in the warmth below. "They steamed up and found nobodyon board. 'I'll leave a note,' says Dollmann. 'No independentcommunications,' say they (or think they), 'we'll come too, andtake the chance of inspecting this hornets' nest.' Down they go,and Dollmann, who knows what to look for first, sees that damningbit of evidence staring him in the face. They look casually at theshelf among other things—examine the logbook, say—andhe manages to push his own book out of sight. But he couldn'treplace it when the interruption came. The action would haveattracted attention then, and Böhme made him leave the cabinin advance, you know."

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

"We must chance it, and bluff for all we're worth," I said. Thefact was that Davies could not be brought to realise that he haddone anything very remarkable that day; yet those fourteen sinuousmiles traversed blindfold, to say nothing of the return journey andmy own exploits, made up an achievement audacious and improbableenough to out-distance suspicion. Nevertheless, von Brüning'sbanter had been disquieting, and if an inkling of our expeditionhad crossed his mind or theirs, there were ways of testing us whichit would require all our effrontery to defeat.

"What are you looking for?" said Davies. I was at the collar andstud stage, but had broken off to study the time-table which we hadbought that morning.

"Somebody insists on coming by the night train to somewhere, onthe 25th," I reminded him. "Böhme, von Brüning, and Grimm are tomeet the Somebody."

"Where?"

"At a railway station! I don't know where. They seemed to takeit for granted. But it must be somewhere on the sea, because Böhmesaid, 'the tide serves.'"

"It may be anywhere from Emden to Hamburg." [See Map B]

"No, there's a limit; it's probably somewhere near. Grimm was tocome, and he's at Memmert."

"Here's the map.... Emden and Norddeich are the only coaststations till you get to Wilhelmshaven—no, to Carolinensiel;but those are a long way east."

"And Emden's a long way south. Say Norddeich then; but accordingto this there's no train there after 6.15 p.m.; that's hardly'night'. When's high tide on the 25th?"

"Let's see—8.30 here to-night—Norddeich'll be thesame. Somewhere between 10.30 and 11 on the 25th."

"There's a train at Emden at 9.22 from Leer and the south, andone at 10.50 from the north."

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

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

"Can't we wait till this cursed inspection's over?"

"No, we can't; we should come to grief." This was no barrentruism, for I was ready with a plan of my own, though reluctant tobroach it to Davies.

Meanwhile, ready or not, we had to start. The cabin we left asit was, changing nothing and hiding nothing; the safest course totake, we thought, in spite of the risk of further search. But, asusual, I transferred my diary to my breast-pocket, and made surethat the two official letters from England were safe in acompartment of it.

"What do you propose?" I asked, when we were in the dinghyagain.

"It's a case of 'as you were'," said Davies. "To-day's trip wasa chance we shall never get again. We must go back to last night'sdecision—tell them that we're going to stay on here for abit. Shooting, I suppose we shall have to say."

"And courting?" I suggested.

"Well, they know all about that. And then we must watch for achance of tackling Dollmann privately. Not to-night, because wewant time to consider those clues of yours."

"'Consider'?" I said: "that's putting it mildly."

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

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

"Steady on," I protested; "and, look here, I disagreealtogether. I believe to-day has doubled our chances, but unless wealter our tactics it has doubled our risks. We've involvedourselves in too tangled a web. I don't like this inspection, and Ifear that foxy old Böhme who prompted it. The mere fact of theirinviting us shows that we stand badly; for it runs in the teeth ofBrüning's warning at Bensersiel, and smells uncommonly like arrest.There's a rift between Dollmann and the others, but it's a ticklishmatter to drive our wedge in; as to to-night, hopeless;they're on the watch, and won't give us a chance. And after all, dowe know enough? We don't know why he fled from England and turnedGerman. It may have been an extraditable crime, but it may not.Supposing he defies us? There's the girl, you see—she tiesour hands, and if he once gets wind of that, and trades on ourweakness, the game's up."

"What are you driving at?"

"We want to detach him from Germany, but he'll probably go toany lengths rather than abandon his position here. His attempt onyou is the measure of his interest in it. Now, is to-day to bewasted?" We were passing through the public gardens, and I droppedon to a seat for a moment's rest, crackling dead leaves under me.Davies remained standing, and pecked at the gravel with histoe.

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

"How?" said Davies. "We're under a searchlight here; and ifwe're caught——"

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

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

"Well, after all, it's where I ought to be at this moment," Iobserved.

"Yes, I forgot. And me?"

"You can't get on without me, so you lay up the yachthere—taking your time."

"While you?"

"After making inquiries about Dollmann's past I double back assomebody else, and follow up the clues."

"You'll have to be quick," said Davies, abstractedly.

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

"When you say 'making inquiries'," he continued, lookingstraight before him, "I hope you don't mean setting other people onhis track?"

"He's fair game!" I could not help saying; for there weremoments when I chafed under this scrupulous fidelity to ourself-denying ordinance.

"He's our game, or nobody's," said Davies, sharply.

"Oh, I'll keep the secret," I rejoined.

"Let's stick together," he broke out. "I shall make a muck of itwithout you. And how are we to communicate—meet?"

"Somehow—that can wait. I know it's a leap in the dark,but there's safety in darkness."

"Carruthers! what are we talking about? If they have the ghostof a notion where we have been to-day, you give us away by packingoff to London. They'll think we know their secret and are clearingout to make use of it. That means arrest, if you like!"

"Pessimist! Haven't I written proof of good faith in mypocket—official letters of recall, received to-day? It's onedeception the less, you see; for those letters may have beenopened; skilfully done it's impossible to detect. When in doubt,tell the truth!"

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

We had been tramping through deserted streets under the glare ofelectricity, I with my leaden shuffle, he with the purposefulforward stoop and swinging arms that always marked his gaitashore.

"Well, what's it to be?" I said. "Here's the Schwannallée."

"I don't like it," said he; "but I trust your judgement."

We turned slowly down, running over a few last points whereprior agreement was essential. As we stood at the very gate of thevilla: "Don't commit yourself to dates," I said; "say nothing thatwill prevent you from being here at least a week hence with theyacht still afloat." And my final word, as we waited at the doorfor the bell to be answered, was: "Don't mind what I say. Ifthings look queer we may have to lighten the ship."

"Lighten?" whispered Davies; "oh, I hope I shan't bosh it."

"I hope I shan't get cramp," I muttered between my teeth.

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

CHAPTER XXIV.
Finesse

The door of a room on the ground floor was opened to us by aman-servant. As we entered the rattle of a piano stopped, and a hotwave of mingled scent and cigar-smoke struck my nostrils. The firstthing I noticed over Davies's shoulder, as he preceded me into theroom, was a woman—the source of the perfume Idecided—turning round from the piano as he passed it andstaring him up and down with a disdainful familiarity that I atonce hotly resented. She was in evening dress, pronounced in cutand colour; had a certain exuberant beauty, not wholly ascribableto nature, and a notable lack of breeding. Another glance showed meDollmann putting down a liqueur glass of brandy, and rising from alow chair with something of a start; and another, von Brüning,lying back in a corner of a sofa, smoking; on the same sofa,vis-à-vis to him, was—yes, of course itwas—Clara Dollmann; but how their surroundings alter people,I caught myself thinking. For the rest, I was aware that the roomwas furnished with ostentation, and was stuffy withstove-engendered warmth. Davies steered a straight course forDollmann, and shook his hand with businesslike resolution. Then hetacked across to the sofa, abandoning me in the face of theenemy.

"Mr——?" said Dollmann.

"Carruthers," I answered, distinctly. "I was with Davies in theboat just now, but I don't think he introduced me. And now he hasforgotten again," I added, dryly, turning towards Davies, who,having presented himself to Fräulein Dollmann, was looking feeblyfrom her to von Brüning, the picture of tongue-tied awkwardness.(The Commander nodded to me and stretched himself with a yawn.)

"Von Brüning told me about you," said Dollmann, ignoring myallusion, "but I was not quite sure of the name. No; it was not anoccasion for formalities, was it?" He gave a sudden, mirthlesslaugh. I thought him flushed and excitable; yet, seen in a normallight, he was in some respects a pleasant surprise, the remarkableconformation of the head giving an impression of intellectual powerand restless, almost insanely restless, energy.

"What need?" I said. "I have heard so much about you fromDavies—and Commander von Brüning—that we seem to be oldfriends already."

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

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

"Let me present you to my wife," said Dollmann.

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

There was a general movement and further introductions. Davieswas led to the stepmother, and I found myself confronting thedaughter with quickened pulses, and a sudden sense of addedcomplexity in the issues. I had, of course, made up my mind toignore our meeting of yesterday, and had assumed that she would dothe same. And she did ignore it—we met as utter strangers;nor did I venture (for other eyes were upon us) to transmit anysign of intelligence to her. But the next moment I was wondering ifI had not fallen into a trap. She had promised not to tell, butunder what circ*mstances? I saw the scene again; the misty flats,the spruce little sail-boat and its sweet young mistress, fresh asa dewy flower, but blanched and demoralised by a horrid fear,appealing to my honour so to act that we three should never meetagain, promising to be silent, but as much in her own interest asours, and under that implied condition which I had only equivocallyrefused. The condition was violated, not by her fault or ours, butviolated. She was free to help her father against us, and was shehelping him? What troubled me was the change in her; thatshe—how can I express it without offence?—was less indiscord with her surroundings than she should have been; that indress, pose and manner (as we exchanged some trivialities) she wastoo near reflecting the style of the other woman; that, in fact,she in some sort realised my original conception of her, sobrutally avowed to Davies, so signally, as I had thought,falsified. In the sick perplexity that this discovery caused me Idare say I looked as foolish as Davies had done, and more so, forthe close heat of the room and its tainted atmosphere, succeedingso abruptly to the wholesome nip of the outside air, were giving mea faintness which this moral check lessened my power to combat. VonBrüning's face wore a sneering smile that I winced under; and,turning, I found another pair of eyes fixed on me, those of HerrBöhme, whose squat figure had appeared at a pair of folding doorsleading to an adjoining room. Napkin in hand, he was taking in thescene before him with fat benevolence, but exceeding shrewdness. Iinstantly noticed a faint red weal relieving the ivory of his baldhead; and I had suffered too often in the same quarter myself tomistake its origin, namely, our cabin doorway.

"This is the other young explorer, Böhme," said von Brüning."Herr Davies kidnapped him a month ago, and bullied and starved himinto submission; they'll drown together yet. I believe hissufferings have been terrible."

"His sufferings are over," I retorted. "I'vemutinied—deserted—haven't I, Davies?" I caught Daviesgazing with solemn gaucherie at Miss Dollmann.

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

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

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

"Why are you going so suddenly?" said von Brüning to me acrossthe table.

"Didn't I tell you we had to call here for letters? I got minethis morning, and among others a summons back to work. Of course Imust obey." (I found myself speaking in a frigid silence.) "Theannoying thing was that there were two letters, and if I had onlycome here two days sooner I should have only got the first, whichgave me an extension."

"You are very conscientious. How will they know?"

"Ah, but the second's rather urgent." There was anotheruncomfortable silence, broken by Dollmann.

"By the way, Herr Davies," he began, "I ought to apologise toyou for——"

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

"Have you been in the harbour all day?" she asked, "then how wasit you did not visit us? Was Herr Davies so shy?" (Curiosity ormalice?)

"Quite the contrary; but I was," I answered coldly; "you see, weknew Herr Dollmann was away, and we really only called here to getmy letters; besides, we did not know your address." I looked atClara and found her talking gaily to von Brüning, deaf seemingly toour little dialogue.

"Anyone would have told you it," said Madame, raising hereyebrows.

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

Von Brüning pricked up his ears at this. "I'll be hanged if thatwas your maxim," he laughed; "you're too fond of theshore!"

I sent him a glance of protest, as though to say: "What's theuse of your warning if you won't let me act on it?"

For, of course, my excuses were meant chiefly for hisconsumption, and Fräulein Dollmann's. That the lady I addressedthem to found them unpalatable was not my fault.

"Then you sat in your wretched little cabin all day?" shepersisted.

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

I think I puzzled the stepmother, who shrugged her whiteshoulders, and said in that case she wondered we had dared to leaveour precious boat and come to supper. If we knew Frisian fogs aswell as she did——

Oh, I explained, we were not so nervous as that; and as forsupper on shore, if she only knew what a Spartan life weled——

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

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

"That is good. We shall be companions."

"Are you going to England, too, sir?" I asked, with hotmisgivings.

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

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

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

Whether I was right or wrong in my next step I shall never know,but obeying a strong instinct, "Memmert," I said; "do tell me moreabout Memmert. We heard a good deal about it from Commander vonBrüning; but——"

"He was discreet, I expect," said Böhme.

"He left off at the most interesting part."

"What's that about me?" joined in von Brüning.

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

"Oh, I don't know," said Davies, evidently aghast at mytemerity; but I did not mind that. If he roughed my suit, so muchthe better; I intended to rough his.

"You gave us plenty of history, Commander, but you did not bringit up to date." The triple alliance laughed, Dollmannboisterously.

"Well," said von Brüning; "I gave you very good reasons, and youacquiesced."

"And now he is trying to pump me," said Böhme, with hisrasping chuckle.

"Wait a bit, sir; I have an excuse. The Commander was not onlymysterious but inaccurate. I appeal to you, Herr Dollmann, for itwas à propos of you. When we fell in with him at Bensersiel,Davies asked him if you were at home, and he said 'No.' When wouldyou be back? Probably soon; but he did not know when."

"Oh, he said that?" said Dollmann.

"Well, only three days later we arrive at Norderney, and findyou have returned that very day, but have gone to Memmert. Again(by the way) the mysterious Memmert! But more than ever mysteriousnow, for in the evening, not only you and HerrBöhme——"

"What penetration!" laughed von Brüning.

"But also Commander von Brüning, pay us a visit in hislaunch, all coming from Memmert!"

"And you infer?" said von Brüning.

"Why, that you must have known at Bensersiel—only threedays ago—exactly when Herr Dollmann was coming back, havingan appointment at Memmert with him for to-day."

"Which I wished to conceal from you?"

"Yes, and that's why I'm so inquisitive; it's entirely your ownfault."

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

"That's just what I want to know. Come, confess now; wasn'tthere something important afoot to-day at Memmert? Something to dowith the gold? You were inspecting it, sorting it, weighing it? OrI know! You were transporting it secretly to themainland?"

"Not a very good day for that! But softly, Herr Carruthers; nofishing for admissions. Who said we had found any gold?"

"Well, have you? There!"

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

"With shares."

"Ah! you remember that? (He remembers everything!) With a fewshares, then; but with no expert knowledge. Now, Böhme is theconsulting engineer. Rescue me, Böhme."

"I cannot disclaim expert knowledge," said Böhme, with humorousgravity; "but I disclaim responsibility. Now, Herr Dollmann ischairman of the company."

"And I," said Dollmann, with a noisy laugh, "must fall back onthe shareholders, whose interests I have to guard. One can't be toocareful in these confidential matters."

"Here's one who gives his consent," I said. "Can't he representthe rest?"

"Extorted by torture," said von Brüning. "I retract."

"Don't mind them, Herr Carruthers," cried Frau Dollmann, "theyare making fun of you; but I will give you a hint; no woman cankeep a secret——"

"Ah!" I cried, triumphantly, "you have been there?"

"I? Not I; I detest the sea! But Clara has." Everyone looked atClara, who in her turn looked in naïve bewilderment from me to herfather.

"Indeed?" I said, more soberly, "but perhaps she is not a freeagent."

"Perfectly free!" said Dollmann.

"I have only been there once, some time ago," said she, "and Isaw no gold at all."

"Guarded," I observed. "I beg your pardon; I mean that perhapsyou only saw what you were allowed to see. And, in any case, theFräulein has no expert knowledge and no responsibility, and,perhaps, no shares. Her province is to be charming, not to holdfinancial secrets."

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

"They're all against us, Davies."

"Oh, chuck it, Carruthers!" said Davies, in English.

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

"Well, I shall draw my own conclusions," I said.

"This is interesting," said von Brüning, "in what sense?"

"It begins to dawn on me that you made fools of us atBensersiel. Don't you remember, Davies, what an interest he took inall our doings? I wonder if he feared our exploring propensitiesmight possibly lead us to Memmert?"

"Upon my word, this is the blackest ingratitude. I thought Imade myself particularly agreeable to you."

"Yes, indeed; especially about the duck-shooting! How usefulyour local man would have been—both to us and to you!"

"Go on," said the Commander, imperturbably.

"Wait a moment; I'm thinking it out." And thinking it out I wasin deadly earnest, for all my levity, as I pressed my hand on myburning forehead and asked myself where I was to stop in thisseductive but perilous fraud. To carry it too far was to courtcomplete exposure; to stop too soon was equally compromising.

"What is he talking about, and why go on with this ridiculousmystery?" said Frau Dollmann.

"I was thinking about this supper party, and the way it cameabout," I pursued, slowly.

"Nothing to complain of, I hope?" said Dollmann.

"Of course not! Impromptu parties are always the pleasantest,and this one was delightfully impromptu. Now I bet you I know itsorigin! Didn't you discuss us at Memmert? And didn't one of yousuggest——?

"One would almost think you had been there," said Dollmann.

"You may thank your vile climate that we weren't," I retorted,laughing. "But, as I was saying, didn't one of yousuggest—which of you? Well, I'm sure it wasn't theCommander——"

"Why not?" said Böhme.

"It's difficult to explain—an intuition, say—I amsure he stood up for us; and I don't think it was Herr Dollmann,because he knows Davies already, and he's always on the spot; and,in short I'll swear it was Herr Böhme, who is leaving earlyto-morrow, and had never seen either of us. It was you, sir, whoproposed that we should be asked to supper to-night—forinspection?"

"Inspection?" said Böhme; "what an extraordinary idea!"

"You can't deny it, though! And one thing more; in the harbourjust now—no—this is going too far; I shall mortallyoffend you." I gave way to hearty laughter.

"Come, let's have it. Your hallucinations are diverting."

"If you insist; but this is rather a delicate matter. You knowwe were a little surprised to find you all on board; andyou, Herr Böhme, did you always take such a deep interest in smallyachts? I am afraid that it was at a certain sacrifice of comfortthat you inspected ours!" And I glanced at the token he boreof his encounter with our lintel. There was a burst of pent-upmerriment, in which Dollmann took the loudest share.

"I warned you, Böhme," he said.

The engineer took the joke in the best possible part.

"We owe you apologies," he conceded.

"Don't mention it," said Davies.

"He doesn't mind," I said; "I'm the injured one. I'm sureyou never suspected Davies, who could?" (Who indeed? I was on firmground there.)

"The point is, what did you take me for?"

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

"Oho! Still suspicious? Don't drive me to extremities."

"What extremities?"

"When I get back to London I shall go to Lloyd's! I haven'tforgotten that flaw in the title." There was an impressivesilence.

"Gentlemen," said Dollmann, with exaggerated solemnity, "we mustcome to terms with this formidable young man. What do you say?"

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

"Take you to Memmert? But I thought you were starting forEngland to-morrow?"

"I ought to; but I'll stay for that."

"You said it was urgent. Your conscience is very elastic."

"That's my affair. Will you take me to Memmert?"

"What do you say, gentlemen?" Böhme nodded. "I think we owe somereparation. Under promise of absolute secrecy, then?"

"Of course, now that you trust me. But you'll show meeverything—honour bright—wreck, depôt, and all?"

"Everything; if you don't object to a diver's dress."

"Victory!" I cried, in triumph. "We've won our point, Davies.And now, gentlemen, I don't mind saying that as far as I amconcerned the joke's at an end; and, in spite of your kind offer, Imust start for England to-morrow" under the good Herr Böhme's wing.And in case my elastic conscience troubles you (for I see you thinkme a weather-co*ck) here are the letters received this morning,establishing my identity as a humble but respectable clerk in theBritish Civil Service, summoned away from his holiday by atyrannical superior." (I pulled out my letters and tossed them toDollmann.) "Ah, you don't read English easily, perhaps? I dare sayHerr Böhme does."

Leaving Böhme to study dates, postmarks, and contents to hisheart's content, and unobserved, I turned to sympathise with myfair neighbour, who complained that her head was going round; andno wonder. But at this juncture, and very much to my surprise,Davies struck in.

"I should like to go to Memmert," he said.

"You?" said von Brüning. "Now I'm surprised at that."

"But you won't be staying here either, Davies," I objected.

"Yes, I shall," said Davies. "Why, I told you I should. If youleave me in the lurch like this I must have time to lookround."

"You needn't pretend that you cannot sail alone," said vonBrüning.

"It's much more fun with two; I think I shall wire for anotherfriend. Meanwhile, I should like to see Memmert."

"That's only an excuse, I'm afraid," said I.

"I want to shoot ducks too," pursued Davies, reddening. "Ialways have wanted to; and you promised to help in that,Commander."

"You can't get out of it now," I laughed.

"Certainly not," said he, unmoved; "but, honestly, I shouldadvise Herr Davies, if he is ever going to get home this season, tomake the best of this fine weather."

"It's too fine," said Davies; "I prefer wind. If I cannot get afriend I think I shall stop cruising, leave the yacht here, andcome back for her next year.

There was some mute telegraphy between the allies.

"You can leave her in my charge," said Dollmann, "and start withyour friend to-morrow."

"Thanks; but there is no hurry," said Davies, growing redderthan ever. "I like Norderney—and we might have another sailin your dinghy, Fräulein," he blurted out.

"Thank you," she said, in that low dry voice I had heardyesterday; "but I think I shall not be sailing again—it isgetting too cold."

"Oh, no!" said Davies, "it's splendid." But she had turned tovon Brüning, and took no notice.

"Well, send me a report about Memmert, Davies," I laughed, withthe idea of drawing attention from his rebuff. But Davies, havingonce delivered his soul, seemed to have lost his shyness, and onlygazed at his neighbour with the placid, dogged expression that Iknew so well. That was the end of those delicate topics; andconviviality grew apace.

I am not indifferent at any time to good wine and good cheer,nor was it for lack of pressing that I drank as sparingly as I wasable, and pretended to a greater elation than I felt. Nor certainlywas it from any fine scruples as to the character of the gentlemanwhose hospitality we were receiving—scruples which I knewaffected Davies, who ate little and drank nothing. In any case hewas adamant in such matters, and I verily believe would at any timehave preferred our own little paraffin-flavoured messes to the bestdinner in the world. It was a very wholesome caution that warned menot to abuse the finest brain tonic ever invented by the wit ofman. I had finessed Memmert, as one finesses a low card whenholding a higher; but I had too much respect for our adversaries totrade on any fancied security we had won thereby. They had allowedme to win the trick, but I credited them with a better knowledge ofmy hand than they chose to show. On the other hand I hugged theaxiom that in all conflicts it is just as fatal to underrate thedifficulties of your enemy as to overrate your own. Their chiefone—and it multiplied a thousandfold the excitement of thecontest—was, I felt sure, the fear of striking in error; ofusing a sledge-hammer to break a nut. In breaking it they riskedpublicity, and publicity, I felt convinced, was death to theirsecret. So, even supposing they had detected the finesse, andguessed that we had in fact got wind of imperial designs; yet, evenso, I counted on immunity so long as they thought we were on thewrong scent, with Memmert, and Memmert alone, as the source of oursuspicions.

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

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

Not even Böhme and von Brüning were wholly at one; and as moraldistances are reckoned, Davies and I were leagues apart. Sittingbetween Dollmann and Dollmann's daughter, the living and breathingsymbols of the two polar passions he had sworn to harmonise, hekept an equilibrium which, though his aims were nominally mine, Icould not attain to. For me the man was the central figure; if Ihad attention to spare it was on him that I bestowed it; gropingdisgustfully after his hidden springs of action, noting theevidences of great gifts squandered and prostituted; questioningwhere he was most vulnerable; whom he feared most, us or hiscolleagues; whether he was open to remorse or shame; or whether hemeditated further crime. The girl was incidental. After the firstshock of surprise I had soon enough discovered that she, like therest, had assumed a disguise; for she was far too innocent tosustain the deception; and yesterday was fresh in my memory. I wasforced to continue turning her assumed character to account; but itwould be pharisaical in me to say that I rose to any moral heightsin her regard—wine and excitement had deadened my betternature to that extent. I thought she looked prettier than ever,and, as time passed, I fell into a cynical carelessness about her.This glimpse of her home life, and the desperate expedients towhich she was driven (whether by compulsion or from her own regardfor Davies) to repel and dismiss him, did not strike me as theymight have done as the crowning argument in favour of the course wehad adopted the night before, that of compassing our end withoutnoise and scandal, disarming Dollmann, but aiding him to escapefrom the allies he had betrayed. To Davies, the man, if not a pureabstraction, was at most a noxious vermin to be trampled on for thepublic good; while the girl, in her blackguardly surroundings, andwith her sinister future, had become the very source of hisimpulse.

And the other players? Böhme was my abstraction, thefortress whose foundations we were sapping, the embodiment of thatsystematised force which is congenital to the German people. In vonBrüning, the personal factor was uppermost. Callous as I was thisevening, I could not help wondering occasionally, as he talked andlaughed with Clara Dollmann, what in his innermost thoughts,knowing her father, he felt and meant. It is a point I cannot andwould not pursue, and, thank Heaven, it does not matter now; yet,with fuller knowledge of the facts, and, I trust, a mellowerjudgement, I often return to the same debate, and, by I know notwhat illogical bypaths, always arrive at the same conclusion, thatI liked the man and like him still.

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

"You want to talk us over," I remember saying, with the lastflicker of gaiety I could muster.

We were in the streets again, under a silver, breathless night;dizzily footing the greasy ladder again; in the cabin again, whereI collapsed on a sofa just as I was, and slept such a deep andstringent sleep that the men of the Blitz's launch mighthave handcuffed and trussed and carried me away, withoutincommoding me in the least.

CHAPTER XXV.
I Double Back

"Good-bye, old chap," called Davies.

"Good-bye," the whistle blew and the ferry-steamer forged ahead,leaving Davies on the quay, bareheaded and wearing his old Norfolkjacket and stained grey flannels, as at our first meeting inFlensburg station. There was no bandaged hand this time, but helooked pinched and depressed; his eyes had black circles roundthem; and again I felt that same indefinable pathos in him.

"Your friend is in low spirits," said Böhme, who was installedon a seat beside me, voluminously caped and rugged against thebiting air. It was a still, sunless day.

"So am I," I grunted, and it was the literal truth. I was onlyhalf awake, felt unwashed and dissipated, heavy in head and limbs.But for Davies I should never have been where I was. It was he whohad patiently coaxed me out of my bunk, packed my bag, fed me withtea and an omelette (to which I believe he had devoted peculiarlytender care), and generally mothered me for departure. While Iswallowed my second cup he was brushing the mould and smoothing thedents from my felt hat, which had been entombed for a month in thesail-locker; working at it with a remorseful concern in his face.The only initiative I am conscious of having shown was in thematter of my bag. "Put in my sea clothes, oils, and all," I hadsaid; "I may want them again." There was mortal need of a thoroughconsultation, but this was out of the question. Davies did notbadger or complain, but only timidly asked me how we were to meetand communicate, a question on which my mind was an absoluteblank.

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

Before we left the cabin he gave me a scrap of pencilled paperand saw that it went safely into my pocket-book. "Look at it in thetrain," he said.

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

(1) Your journey. [See Maps A andB.] Norddeich 8.58, Emden 10.32, Leer 11.16(Böhme changes for Bremen), Rheine 1.8 (change), Amsterdam 7.17p.m. Leave again via Hook 8.52, London 9 am.

(2) The coast-station—their rondezvous—querryis it Norden? (You pass it 9.13)—there is a tidalcreek up to it. High-water there on 25th, say 10.30 to 11 p.m. Itcannot be Norddeich, which I find has a dredged-out low-waterchannel for the steamer, so tide "serves" would not apply.

(3) Your other clews (tugs, pilots, depths, railway,Esens, seven of something). Querry: Scheme of defence by land andsea for North Sea Coast?

Sea—7 islands, 7 channels between (counting WestEms), very small depths (what you said) in most of them. Tugs andpilots for patrol work behind islands, as I always said. Querry:Rondezvous is for inspecting channels?

Land—Look at railway (map in ulster pocket) runningin a loop all round Friesland, a few miles from coast. Querry: Tobe used as line of communication for army corps. Troops could bequickly sent to any threatened point. Esens the base? It isin top centre of loop. Von Brooning dished us fairly over that atBensersiel.

Chatham—D. was spying after our naval plans for warwith Germany.

Von Brooning runs naval part over here.

Where does Burmer come in? Querry—you go to Bremen andfind out about him?

I nodded stupidly over this document—so stupidly that Ifound myself wondering whether Burmer was a place or a person. ThenI dozed, to wake with a violent start and find the paper on thefloor. Panic-stricken, I hid it away, and went on deck, when Ifound we were close to Norddeich, running up to the bleakest ofbleak jetties thrown out from the dyke-bound polders of themainland. Böhme and I landed together, and he was at my elbow as Iasked for a ticket for Amsterdam, and was given one as far asRheine, a junction near the Dutch frontier. He was ensconced in anopposite corner to me in the railway carriage, looking like anIndian idol. "Where do you come in?" I pondered, dreamily. Toosleepy to talk, I could only blink at him, sitting bolt uprightwith my arms folded over my precious pocket-book. Finally, I gaveup the struggle, buttoned my ulster tightly up, and turning my backupon him with an apology, lay down to sleep, the precious pocketnethermost. He was at liberty to rifle my bag if he chose, and Idare say he did. I cannot say, for from this point till Rheine, forthe best part of four hours, that is, I had only two lucidintervals.

The first was at Emden, where we both had to change. Here, as wepushed our way down the crowded platform, Böhme, after beinggreeted respectfully by several persons, was at last buttonholedwithout means of escape by an obsequious gentleman, whosedescription is of no moment, but whose conversation is. It wasabout a canal; what canal I did not gather, though, from a namedropped, I afterwards identified it as one in course ofconstruction as a feeder to the Ems. The point is that the subjectwas canals. At the moment it was seed dropped in unreceptive soil,but it germinated later. I passed on, mingling with the crowd, andwas soon asleep again in another carriage where Böhme this time didnot follow me.

The second occasion was at Leer, where I heard myself called byname, and woke to find him at the window. He had to change trains,and had come to say good-bye. "Don't forget to go to Lloyd's," hegrated in my ear. I expect it was a wan smile that I returned, forI was at a very low ebb, and my fortress looked sarcasticallyimpregnable. But the sapper was free; "free" was my last consciousthought.

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

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

The pace, then, was execrable, and there were delays; we werebehind time at Hengelo, thirty minutes late at Apeldoorn; so that Imight well have grown nervous about my connexions at Amsterdam,which were in some jeopardy. But as I battled out of my lethargyand began to take account of our position and prospects, quite adifferent thought at the outset affected me. Anxiety to reachLondon was swamped in reluctance to quit Germany, so that I foundmyself grudging every mile that I placed between me and thefrontier. It was the old question of urgency. To-day was the 23rd.The visit to London meant a minimum absence of forty-eight hours,counting from Amsterdam; that is to say, that by travelling for twonights and one day, and devoting the other day to investigatingDollmann's past, it was humanly possible for me to be back on theFrisian coast on the evening of the 25th. Yes, I could be atNorden, if that was the "rendezvous", at 7 p.m. But what ascramble! No margin for delays, no physical respite. Some paststake a deal of raking up—other persons may be affected; menare cautious, they trip you up with red tape; or the man who knowsis out at lunch—a protracted lunch; or in the country—aprotracted week-end. Will you see Mr So-and-so, or leave a note?Oh! I know those public departments—from the inside! And theAdmiralty!... I saw myself baffled and racing back the same nightto Germany, with two days wasted, arriving, good for nothing, atNorden, with no leisure to reconnoitre my ground; to be baffledagain there, probably, for you cannot always count on fogs (asDavies said). Esens was another clue, and "to followBurmer"—there was something in that notion. But I wantedtime, and had I time? How long could Davies maintain himself atNorderney? Not so very long, from what I remembered of last night.And was he even safe there? A feverish dream recurred to me—adream of Davies in a diving-dress; of a regrettable hitch in theair-supply—Stop, that was nonsense!... Let us be sane. Whatmatter if he had to go? What matter if I took my time in London?Then with a flood of shame I saw Davies's wistful face on the quay,heard his grim ejacul*tion: "He's our game or no one's"; and my ownsullen "Oh, I'll keep the secret!" London was utterly impossible.If I found my informant, what credentials had I, what claim toconfidences? None, unless I told the whole story. Why, my merepresence in Whitehall would imperil the secret; for, once on mynative heath, I should be recognised—possibly haled tojudgement; at the best should escape in a cloud ofrumour—"last heard of at Norderney"; "only this morning wasraising Cain at the Admiralty about a mythical lieutenant." No!Back to Friesland, was the word. One night's rest—I must havethat—between sheets, on a feather bed; one long, luxuriousnight, and then back refreshed to Friesland, to finish our work inour own way, and with none but our own weapons.

Having reached this resolve, I was nearly putting it intoinstant execution, by alighting at Amersfoort, but thought betterof it. I had a transformation to effect before I returned north,and the more populous centre I made it in the less it was likely toattract notice. Besides, I had in my mind's eye a perfect bed in aperfect hostelry hard by the Amstel River. It was an economy in theend.

So, at half-past eight I was sipping my coffee in the aforesaidhostelry, with a London newspaper before me, which was unusuallyinteresting, and some German journals, which, "in hate of a wrongnot theirs", were one and all seething with rancorous Anglophobia.At nine I was in the Jewish quarter, striking bargains in aninfamous marine slop-shop. At half-past nine I was despatching thisunscrupulous telegram to my chief—"Very sorry, could not callNorderney; hope extension all right; please write to Hôtel duLouvre, Paris." At ten I was in the perfect bed, rapturouslyflinging my limbs abroad in its glorious redundancies. And at 8.28on the following morning, with a novel chilliness about the upperlip, and a vast excess of strength and spirits, I was sitting in athird-class carriage, bound for Germany, and dressed as a youngseaman, in a pea-jacket, peaked cap, and comforter.

The transition had not been difficult. I had shaved off mymoustache and breakfasted hastily in my bedroom, ready equipped fora journey in my ulster and cloth cap. I had dismissed the hotelporter at the station, and left my bag at the cloak-room, aftertaking out of it an umber bundle and substituting the ulster. Theumber bundle, which consisted of my oilskins, and within them mysea-boots and a few other garments and necessaries, the whole tiedup with a length of tarry rope, was now in the rack above me, and(with a stout stick) represented my luggage. Every article init—I shudder at their origin—was in strict keeping withmy humble métier, for I knew they were liable to search atthe frontier Custom-house; but there was a Baedeker of NorthernGermany in my jacket pocket.

For the nonce, if questions were asked, I was an English seaman,going to Emden to join a ship, with a ticket as far as thefrontier. Beyond that a definite scheme of action had still to bethought out. One thing, however, was sure. I was determined to beat Norden to-morrow night, the 25th. A word about Norden, which isa small town seven miles south of Norddeich. When hurriedlyscanning the map for coast stations in the cabin yesterday, I hadnot thought of Norden, because it did not appear to be on thecoast, but Davies had noticed it while I slept, and I now saw thathis pencilled hint was a shrewd one. The creek he spoke of, thoughbarely visible on the map, [See Map B]flowed into the Ems Estuary in a south-westerly direction. The"night train" tallied to perfection, for high tide in the creekwould be, as Davies estimated, between 10.30 and 11 p.m. on thenight of the 25th; and the time-table showed that the only nighttrain arriving at Norden was one from the south at 10.46 p.m. Thislooked promising. Emden, which I had inclined to on the spur of themoment, was out of court in comparison, for many reasons; not theleast being that it was served by three trains between 9 p.m. and 1a.m., so that the phrase "night train" would be ambiguous and notdecisive as with Norden.

So far good; but how was I to spend the intervening time? ShouldI act on Davies's "querry" and go to Bremen after Böhme? I soondismissed that idea. It was one to act upon if others failed; forthe present it meant another scramble. Bremen is six hours fromNorden by rail. I should spend a disproportionate amount of mylimited time in trains, and I should want a different disguise.Besides, I had already learnt something fresh about Böhme; for theseed dropped at Emden Station yesterday had come to life. Asubmarine engineer I knew him to be before; I now knew that canalswere another branch of his labours—not a very illuminatingfact; but could I pick up more in a single day?

There remained Esens, and it was thither I resolved to goto-night—a tedious journey, lasting till past eight in theevening; but there I should only be an hour from Norden byrail.

And at Esens?

All day long I strove for light on the central mystery,collecting from my diary, my memory, my imagination, from the map,the time-table, and Davies's grubby jottings, every elusive atom ofmaterial. Sometimes I issued from a reverie with a start, to find aphlegmatic Dutch peasant staring strangely at me over his chinapipe. I was more careful over the German border. Davies's paper Isoon knew by heart. I pictured him writing it with his cramped fistin his corner by the stove, fighting against sleep, absentlystriking salvos of matches, while I snored in my bunk; absentlydiverging into dreams, I knew, of a rose-brown face under dewy hairand a grey tam-o'-shanter; though not a word of her came into thedocument. I smiled to see his undying faith in the "channel theory"reconciled at the eleventh hour, with new data touching theneglected "land".

The result was certainly interesting, but it left me cold. Thatthere existed in the German archives some such scheme of defencefor the North Sea coast was very likely indeed. The seven islands,with their seven shallow channels (though, by the way, two of them,the twin branches of the Ems, are by no means so shallow), were avery fair conjecture, and fitted in admirably with the channeltheory, whose intrinsic merits I had always recognised; my constantobjection having been that it did not go nearly far enough toaccount for our treatment. The ring of railway round the peninsula,with Esens at the apex, was suggestive, too; but the same objectionapplied. Every country with a maritime frontier has, I suppose,secret plans of mobilisation for its defence, but they are not suchas could be discovered by passing travellers, not such as wouldwarrant stealthy searches, or require for their elaboration sorecondite a meeting-place as Memmert. Dollmann was another weakpoint; Dollmann in England, spying. All countries, Germanyincluded, have spies in their service, dirty though necessarytools; but Dollmann in such intimate association with the principalplotters on this side; Dollmann rich, influential, a power in localaffairs—it was clear he was no ordinary spy.

And here I detected a hesitation in Davies's rough sketch, areluctance, as it were, to pursue a clue to its logical end. Hespoke of a German scheme of coast defence, and in the next breathof Dollmann spying for English plans in the event of war withGermany, and there he left the matter; but what sort of plans?Obviously (if he was on the right track) plans of attack on theGerman coast as opposed to those of strategy on the high seas. Butwhat sort of an attack? Obviously again, if his railway-ring meantanything, an attack by invasion on that remote and desolatelittoral which he had so often himself declared to be impregnablysecure behind its web of sands and shallows. My mind went back tomy question at Bensersiel, "Can this coast be invaded?" to hisdenial and our fruitless survey of the dykes and polders. Was henow reverting to a fancy we had both rejected, while shrinking fromgiving it explicit utterance? The doubt was tantalising.

A brief digression here about the phases of my journey. AtRheine I changed trains, turned due north and became a Germanseaman. There was little risk in a defective accent—sailorsare so polyglot; while an English sailor straying about Esens mightexcite curiosity. Yesterday I had paid no heed to the landscape;to-day I neglected nothing that could conceivably supply ahint.

From Rheine to Emden we descended the valley of the Ems; atfirst through a land of thriving towns and fat pastures,degenerating farther north to spaces of heathery bog andmoorland—a sad country, but looking at its best, such as thatwas, for I should mention here that the weather, which in the earlymorning had been as cold and misty as ever, grew steadily milderand brighter as the day advanced; while my newspaper stated thatthe glass was falling and the anticyclone giving way to pressurefrom the Atlantic.

At Emden, where we entered Friesland proper, the train crossed abig canal, and for the twentieth time that day (for we had passednumbers of them in Holland, and not a few in Germany), I said tomyself, "Canals, canals. Where does Böhme come in?" It was dusk,but light enough to see an unfamiliar craft, a torpedo-boat infact, moored to stakes at one side. In a moment I remembered thatpage in the North Sea Pilot where the Ems-Jade Canal isreferred to as deep enough to carry gun-boats, and as used for thatstrategic purpose between Wilhelmshaven and Emden, along the base,that is, of the Frisian peninsula. I asked a peasant opposite; yes,that was the Ems-Jade Canal. Had Davies forgotten it? It would havegreatly strengthened his halting sketch.

At the bookstall at Emden I bought a pocket ordnance map [Thereis, of course, no space to reproduce this, but here andhenceforward the reader is referred to Map B.] of Friesland, on amuch larger scale than anything I had used before, and when I wasunobserved studied the course of the canal, with an impatiencewhich, alas! quickly cooled. From Emden northwards I used the samemap to aid my eyesight, and with its help saw in the gatheringgloom more heaths and bogs, once a great glimmering lake, and atintervals cultivated tracts; a watery land as ever; pools, streamsand countless drains and ditches. Extensive woods were marked also,but farther inland. We passed Norden at seven, just dark. I lookedout for the creek, and sure enough, we crossed it just beforeentering the station. Its bed was nearly dry, and I distinguishedbarges lying aground in it. This being the junction for Esens, Ihad to wait three-quarters of an hour, and then turned east throughthe uttermost northern wilds, stopping at occasional villagestations and keeping five or six miles from the sea. It was duringthis stage, in a wretchedly lit compartment, and alone for the mostpart, that I finally assembled all my threads and tried to weavethem into a cable whose core should be Esens; "a town", so Baedekersaid, "of 3,500 inhabitants, the centre of a rich agriculturaldistrict. Fine spire."

Esens is four miles inland from Bensersiel. I reviewed everycirc*mstance of that day at Bensersiel, and boiled to think how vonBrüning had tricked me. He had driven to Esens himself, and read meso well that he actually offered to take me with him, and I hadrefused from excess of cleverness. Stay, though; if I had happenedto accept he would have taken very good care that I saw nothingimportant. The secret, therefore, was not writ large on the wallsof Esens. Was it connected with Bensersiel too, or the countrybetween? I searched the ordnance map again, standing up to get abetter light and less jolting. There was the road northwards fromEsens to Bensersiel, passing through dots and chess-board squares,the former meaning fen, the latter fields, so the reference said.Something else, too, immediately caught my eye, and that was astream running to Bensersiel. I knew it at once for the muddystream or drain we had seen at the harbour, issuing through thesluice or siel from which Bensersiel took its name. But itarrested my attention now because it looked more prominent than Ishould have expected. Charts are apt to ignore the geography of themainland, except in so far as it offers sea-marks to mariners. Onthe chart this stream had been shown as a rough little corkscrew,like a sucking-pig's tail. On the ordnance map it was marked with adark blue line, was labelled "Benser Tief", and was given a moreresolute course; bends became angles, and there were what appearedto be artificial straightnesses at certain points. One of thethreads in my skein, the canal thread, tingled sympathetically,like a wire charged with current. Standing astraddle on both seats,with the map close to the lamp, I greedily followed the course ofthe "tief" southward. It inclined away from the road to Esens andpassed the town about a mile to the west, diving underneath therailway. Soon after it took angular tacks to the eastward, andjoined another blue line trending south-east, and lettered"Esens—Wittmunder Canal." This canal, however, came toan abrupt end halfway to Wittmund, a neighbouring town.

For the first time that day there came to me a sense of genuineinspiration. Those shallow depths and short distances, fractions ofmetres and kilometres, which I had overheard from Böhme's lips atMemmert, and which Davies had attributed to the outsidechannels—did they refer to a canal? I remembered seeingbarges in Bensersiel harbour. I remembered conversations with thenatives in the inn, scraps of the post-master's pompous loquacity,talks of growing trade, of bricks and grain passing from theinterior to the islands: from another source—was it thegrocer of Wangeroog?—of expansion of business in the islandsthemselves as bathing resorts; from another source again—vonBrüning himself, surely—of Dollmann's personal activity inthe development of the islands. In obscure connexion with thesethings, I saw the torpedo-boat in the Ems-Jade Canal.

It was between Dornum and Esens that these ideas came, and I wasstill absorbed in them when the train drew up, just upon nineo'clock, at my destination, and after ten minutes' walk, along witha handful of other passengers, I found myself in the quiet cobbledstreets of Esens, with the great church steeple, that we had sooften seen from the sea, soaring above me in the moonlight.

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Seven Siels

Selecting the very humblest Gasthaus I could discover, Ilaid down my bundle and called for beer, bread, and Wurst.The landlord, as I had expected, spoke the Frisian dialect, so thatthough he was rather difficult to understand, he had no doubtsabout the purity of my own German high accent. He was a worthyfellow, and hospitably interested: "Did I want a bed?" "No; I wasgoing on to Bensersiel," I said, "to sleep there, and take themorning Postschiff to Langeoog Island." (I had not forgottenour friends the twin giants and their functions.) "I was not anislander myself?" he asked. "No, but I had a married sister there;had just returned from a year's voyaging, and was going to visither." "By the way," I asked, "how are they getting on with theBenser Tief?" My friend shrugged his shoulders; it was finished, hebelieved. "And the connexion to Wittmund?" "Under constructionstill." "Langeoog would be going ahead then?" "Oh! he supposed so,but he did not believe in these new-fangled schemes." "But it wasgood for trade, I supposed? Esens would benefit in sending goods bythe 'tief'—what was the traffic, by the way?" "Oh, a few morebarge-loads than before of bricks, timber, coals, etc., but itwould come to nothing he knew: Aktiengesellschaften(companies) were an invention of the devil. A few speculators gotthem up and made money themselves out of land and contracts, whilethe shareholders they had hoodwinked starved." "There's somethingin that," I conceded to this bigoted old conservative; "my sisterat Langeoog rents her lodging-house from a man named Dollmann; theysay he owns a heap of land about. I saw his yacht once—pinkvelvet and electric light inside, they say——"

"That's the name," said mine host, "that's one ofthem—some sort of foreigner, I've heard; runs a salvageconcern, too, Juist way."

"Well, he won't get any of my savings!" I laughed, and soonafter took my leave, and inquired from a passer-by the road toDornum. "Follow the railway," I was told.

With a warm wind in my face from the south-west, fleecy cloudsand a half-moon overhead, I set out, not for Bensersiel but forBenser Tief, which I knew must cross the road to Dornum somewhere.A mile or so of cobbled causeway flanked with ditches and willows,and running cheek by jowl with the railway track; then a bridge,and below me the "Tief"; which was, in fact, a small canal. A ruttytrack left the road, and sloped down to it one side; a rough sidingleft the railway, and sloped down to it on the other.

I lit a pipe and sat on the parapet for a little. No one wasstirring, so with great circ*mspection I began to reconnoitre theleft bank to the north. The siding entered a fenced enclosure by alocked gate—a gate I could have easily climbed, but I judgedit wiser to go round by the bridge again and look across. Theenclosure was a small coal-store, nothing more; there were gauntheaps of coal glittering in the moonlight; a barge half loadedlying alongside, and a deserted office building. I skulked along asandy towpath in solitude. Fens and field were round me, as the maphad said; willows and osier-beds; the dim forms of cattle; the lowmelody of wind roaming unfettered over a plain; once or twice theflutter and quack of a startled wild-duck.

Presently I came to a farmhouse, dark and silent; opposite it,in the canal, a couple of empty barges. I climbed into one ofthese, and sounded with my stick on the off-side—barely threefeet; and the torpedo-boat melted out of my speculations. Thestream, I observed also, was only just wide enough for two bargesto pass with comfort. Other farms I saw, or thought I saw, and afew more barges lying in side-cuts linked by culverts to the canal,but nothing noteworthy; and mindful that I had to explore theWittmund side of the railway too, I turned back, already a trifledamped in spirits, but still keenly expectant.

Passing under the road and railway, I again followed thetow-path, which, after half a mile, plunged into woods, thenentered a clearing and another fenced enclosure; a timber-yard bythe look of it. This time I stripped from the waist downward, wadedover, dressed again, and climbed the paling. (There was a cottagestanding back, but its occupants evidently slept.) I was in atimber-yard, by the stacks of wood and the steam saw-mill; butsomething more than a timber-yard, for as I warily advanced underthe shadow of the trees at the edge of the clearing I came to along tin shed which strangely reminded me of Memmert, and below it,nearer the canal, loomed a dark skeleton framework, which proved tobe a half-built vessel on stocks. Close by was a similar object,only nearly completed—a barge. A paved slipway led to thewater here, and the canal broadened to a siding or back-water inwhich lay seven or eight more barges in tiers. I scaled anotherpaling and went on, walking, I should think, three miles by theside of the canal, till the question of bed and ulterior plansbrought me to a halt. It was past midnight, and I was adding littleto my information. I had encountered a brick-field, but soon afterthat there was increasing proof that the canal was as yet littleused for traffic. It grew narrower, and there were many signs ofrecent labour for its improvement. In one place a dammed-offdeviation was being excavated, evidently to abridge an impossiblebend. The path had become atrocious, and my boots were heavy withclay. Bearing in mind the abruptly-ending blue line on the map, Iconsidered it useless to go farther, and retraced my steps, tryingto concoct a story which would satisfy an irritable Esensinn-keeper that it was a respectable wayfarer, and not a tramp or alunatic, who knocked him up at half-past one or thereabouts.

But a much more practical resource occurred to me as Iapproached the timber-yard; for lodging, free and accessible, laythere ready to hand. I boarded one of the empty barges in thebackwater, and surveyed my quarters for the night. It was of asimilar pattern to all the others I had seen; a lighter, strictly,in the sense that it had no means of self-propulsion, and noseparate quarters for a crew, the whole interior of the hull beingfree for cargo. At both bow and stern there were ten feet or so ofdeck, garnished with bitts and bollards. The rest was an open well,flanked by waterways of substantial breadth; the whole of stoutconstruction and, for a humble lighter, of well-proportioned andeven graceful design, with a marked forward sheer, and, as I hadobserved in the specimen on the stocks, easy lines at the stern. Inshort, it was apparent, even to an ignorant landsman like myself,that she was designed not merely for canal work but for roughwater; and well she might be, for, though the few miles of sea shehad to cross in order to reach the islands were both shallow andsheltered, I knew from experience what a vicious surf they could bewhipped into by a sudden gale. It must not be supposed that I dwelton this matter. On limited lines I was making progress, but thewings of imagination still drooped nervelessly at my sides.Otherwise I perhaps should have examined this lighter moreparticularly, instead of regarding it mainly as a convenienthiding-place. Under the stern-deck was stored a massive roll oftarpaulin, a corner of which made an excellent blanket, and mybundle a good pillow. It was a descent from the luxury of lastnight; but a spy, I reflected philosophically, cannot expect afeather bed two nights running, and this one was at any rate airierand roomier than the coffin-like bunk of the Dulcibella, andnot so very much harder.

When snugly ensconced, I studied the map by intermittentmatch-light. It had been dawning on me in the last half-hour thatthis canal was only one of several; that in concentrating myself onEsens and Bensersiel, I had forgotten that there were othervillages ending in siel, also furnished on the chart with corkscrewstreams; and, moreover, that Böhme's statistics of depth anddistance had been marshalled in seven categories, A to G. The veryfirst match brought full recollection as to the villages. Thesuffix siel repeated itself all round the coast-line. Fivemiles eastward of Bensersiel was Neuharlingersiel, and farther onCarolinensiel. Four miles westward was Dornumersiel; and farther onNessmersiel and Hilgenriedersiel. That was six on the north coastof the peninsula alone. On the west coast, facing the Ems, therewas only one, Greetsiel, a good way south of Norden. But on theeast, facing the Jade, there were no less than eight, at very closeintervals. A moment's thought and I disregarded this latter group;they had nothing to do with Esens, nor had they any imaginableraison d'étre as veins for commerce; differing markedly inthis respect from the group of six on the north coast, whoseoutlook was the chain of islands, and whose inland centre, almostexactly, was Esens. I still wanted one to make seven, and as aworking hypothesis added the solitary Greetsiel. At all sevenvillages streams debouched, as at Bensersiel. From all seven pointsof issue dotted lines were marked seaward, intersecting the greattidal sands and leading towards the islands. And on the mainlandbehind the whole sevenfold system ran the loop of railway. Butthere were manifold minor points of difference. No stream boastedso deep and decisive a blue lintel as did Benser Tief; nonepenetrated so far into the Hinterland. They varied in length andsinuosity. Two, those belonging to Hilgenriedersiel and Greetsiel,appeared not to reach the railway at all. On the other hand,Carolinensiel, opposite Wangeroog Island, had a branch line all toitself.

Match after match waxed and waned as I puzzled over the mysticseven. In the end I puzzled myself to sleep, with the one fixedidea that to-morrow, on my way back to Norden, I must see more ofthese budding canals, if such they were. My dreams that night wereof a mighty chain of redoubts and masked batteries couchingperdus among the sand-dunes of desolate islets; built,coral-like, by infinitely slow and secret labour; fed by lethalcargoes borne in lighters and in charge of stealthy mutes who, oneand all, bore the likeness of Grimm.

I was up and away at daylight (the weather mild and showery),meeting some navvies on my way back to the road, who gave me goodmorning and a stare. On the bridge I halted and fell into tormentsof indecision. There was so much to do and so little time to do itin. The whole problem seemed to have been multiplied by seven, andthe total again doubled and redoubled—seven blue lines onland, seven dotted lines on the sea, seven islands in the offing.Once I was near deciding to put my pretext into practice, and crossto Langeoog; but that meant missing the rendezvous, and I was lothto do that.

At any rate, I wanted breakfast badly; and the best way to getit, and at the same time to open new ground, was to walk to Dornum.Then I should find a blue line called the Neues Tief leadingto Dornumersiel, on the coast. That explored, I could pass on toNesse, where there was another blue line to Nessmersiel. All thiswas on the way to Norden, and I should have the railway constantlyat my back, to carry me there in the evening. The last train (mytime-table told me) was one reaching Norden at 7.15 p.m. I couldcatch this at Hage Station at 7.5.

A brisk walk of six miles brought me, ravenously hungry, toDornum. Road and railway had clung together all the time, and abouthalf-way had been joined on the left by a third companion in theshape of a puny stream which I knew from the map to be the upperportion of Neues Tief. Wriggling and doubling like an eel, chokedwith sedges and reeds, it had no pretensions to being navigable. Atlength it looped away into the fens out of sight, only to reappearagain close to Dornum in a much more dignified guise.

There was no siding where the railway crossed it, but at thetown itself, which it skirted on the east, a towpath began, and apiled wharf had been recently constructed. Going on to this was ared-brick building with the look of a warehouse, roofless as yet,and with workmen on its scaffolds. It sharpened the edge of myappetite.

If I had been wise I should have been content with a snackbought at a counter, but a thirst for hot coffee and clues inducedme to repeat the experiment of Esens and seek a primitivebeer-house. I was less lucky on this occasion. The house I chosewas obscure enough, but its proprietor was no simple Frisian, butan ill-looking rascal with shifty eyes and a debauched complexion,who showed a most unwelcome curiosity in his customer. As a lastfatality, he wore a peaked cap like my own, and turned out to be anex-sailor. I should have fled at the sight of him had I had thechance, but I was attended to first by a slatternly girl who, I amsure, called him up to view me. To explain my muddy boots andtrousers I said I had walked from Esens, and from that I foundmyself involved in a tangle of impromptu lies. Floundering down anold groove, I placed my sister this time on Baltrum Island, andsaid I was going to Dornumersiel (which is opposite Baltrum) tocross from there. As this was drawing a bow at a venture, I darednot assume local knowledge, and spoke of the visit as my first.Dornumersiel was a lucky shot; there was a ferry-galliotfrom there to Baltrum; but he knew, or pretended to know, Baltrum,and had not heard of my sister. I grew the more nervous in that Isaw from the first that he took me to be of better condition thanmost merchant seamen; and, to make matters worse, I was imprudentenough in pleading haste to pull out from an inner pocket my goldwatch with the chain and seals attached. He told me there was nohurry, that I should miss the tide at Dornumersiel, and then fellto pressing strong waters on me, and asking questions whoseinsinuating grossness gave me the key to his biography. He musthave been at one stage in his career a dock-side crimp, one ofthose foul sharks who prey on discharged seamen, and as often asnot are ex-seamen themselves, versed in the weaknesses of thetribe. He was now keeping his hand in with me, who, unhappily,purported to belong to the very class he was used to victimise,and, moreover, had a gold watch, and, doubtless, a full purse.Nothing more ridiculously inopportune could have befallen me, ormore dangerous; for his class are as cosmopolitan as waiters andconcierges, with as facile a gift for language and asunerring a scent for nationality. Sure enough, the fellowrecognised mine, and positively challenged me with it in fairlyfluent English with a Yankee twang. Encumbered with the mythicalsister, of course I stuck to my lie, said I had been on an Englishship so long that I had picked up the accent, and also gave himsome words in broken English. At the same time I showed I thoughthim an impertinent nuisance, paid my score and walkedout—quit of him? Not a bit of it! He insisted on showing methe way to Dornumersiel, and followed me down the street.Perceiving that he was in liquor, in spite of the early hour, Idared not risk a quarrelsome scene with a man who already knew somuch about me, and might at any moment elicit more. So I melted,and humoured him; treated him in a ginshop in the hope of givinghim the slip—a disastrous resource, which was made aprecedent for further potations elsewhere. I would gladly draw aveil over our scandalous progress through peaceable Dornum, of theterrors I experienced when he introduced me as his friend, and ashis English friend, and of the abasem*nt I felt, too, as, linkedarm in arm, we trod the three miles of road coastwards. It was hismalicious whim that we should talk English; a fortunate whim, as itturned out, because I knew no fo'c'sle German, but had a smatteringof fo'c'sle English, gathered from Cutcliffe Hyne and Kipling. Withthese I extemporised a disreputable hybrid, mostly consisting ofoaths and blasphemies, and so yarned of imaginary voyages. Ofcourse he knew every port in the world, but happily was none toocritical, owing to repeated schnappsen.

Nevertheless, it was a deplorable contretemps from everypoint of view. I was wasting my time, for the road took a differentdirection to the Neues Tief, so that I had not even the advantageof inspecting the canal and only met with it when we reached thesea. Here it split into two mouths, both furnished with locks, andemptying into two little mud-hole harbours, replicas of Bensersiel,each owning its cluster of houses. I made straight for theGasthaus at Dornumersiel, primed my companion well, andasked him to wait while I saw about a boat in the harbour; but,needless to say, I never rejoined him. I just took a cursory lookat the left-hand harbour, saw a lighter locking through (for thetide was high), and then walked as fast as my legs would carry meto the outermost dyke, mounted it, and strode along the seawestwards in the teeth of a smart shower of rain, full of deepapprehensions as to the stir and gossip my disappearance mightcause if my odious crimp was sober enough to discover it. As soonas I deemed it safe, I dropped on to the sand and ran till I couldrun no more. Then I sat on my bundle with my back to the dyke inpartial shelter from the rain, watching the sea recede from theflats and dwindle into slender meres, and the laden clouds flyweeping over the islands till those pale shapes were lost inmist.

The barge I had seen locking through was creeping across towardsLangeoog behind a tug and a wisp of smoke.

No more exploration by daylight! That was my first resolve, forI felt as if the country must be ringing with reports of anEnglishman in disguise. I must remain in hiding till dusk, thenregain the railway and slink into that train to Norden. Nowdirectly I began to resign myself to temporary inaction, and tocentre my thoughts on the rendezvous, a new doubt assailed me.Nothing had seemed more certain yesterday than that Norden was thescene of the rendezvous, but that was before the seven sielshad come into prominence. The name Norden now sounded naked andunconvincing. As I wondered why, it suddenly occurred to me thatall the stations along this northern line, though fartherinland than Norden, were equally "coast stations", in the sensethat they were in touch with harbours (of a sort) on the coast.Norden had its tidal creek, but Esens and Dornum had their "tiefs"or canals. Fool that I had been to put such a narrow and literalconstruction on the phrase "the tide serves!" Which was it morelikely that my conspirators would visit—Norden, whoseintrusion into our theories was purely hypothetical, or one ofthese siels to whose sevenfold systems all my latestobservations gave such transcendent significance?

There was only one answer; and it filled me with profounddiscouragement. Seven possible rendezvous!—eight, countingNorden. Which to make for? Out came the time-table and map, andwith them hope. The case was not so bad after all; it demanded noimmediate change of plan, though it imported grave uncertaintiesand risks. Norden was still the objective, but mainly as a railwayjunction, only remotely as a seaport. Though the possiblerendezvous were eight, the possible stations were reduced tofive—Norden, Hage, Dornum, Esens, Wittmund—all on onesingle line. Trains from east to west along this line werenegligible, because there were none that could be called nighttrains, the latest being the one I had this morning fixed on tobring me to Norden, where it arrived at 7.15. Of trains from westto east there was only one that need be considered, the same onethat I had travelled by last night, leaving Norden at 7.43 andreaching Esens at 8.50, and Wittmund at 9.13. This train, as thereader who was with me in it knows, was in correspondence withanother from Emden and the south, and also, I now found, withservices from Hanover, Bremen, and Berlin. He will also rememberthat I had to wait three-quarters of an hour at Norden, from 7 to7.43.

The platform at Norden Junction, therefore, between 7.15, when Ishould arrive at it from the east, and 7.43 when Böhme andhis unknown friend should leave it for the east; there, andin that half-hour, was my opportunity for recognising and shadowingtwo at least of the conspirators. I must take the train they took,and alight where they alighted. If I could not find them at all Ishould be thrown back on the rejected view that Norden itself wasthe rendezvous, and should wait there till 10.46.

In the meantime it was all very well to resolve on inaction tilldusk; but after an hour's rest, damp clothes and feet, and theabsence of pursuers, tempted me to take the field again. Avoidingroads and villages as long as it was light, I cut across countrysouth-westwards—a dismal and laborious journey, with oozyfens and knee-deep drains to course, with circuits to be made topass clear of peasants, and many furtive crouchings behind dykesand willows. What little I learnt was in harmony with previousexplorations, for my track cut at right angles the line of theHarke Tief, the stream issuing at Nessmersiel. It, too, was in thenature of a canal, but only in embryo at the point I touched it,south of Nesse. Works on a deviation were in progress, and in ashort digression down stream I sighted another lighter-buildingyard. As for Hilgenriedersiel, the fourth of the seven, I had notime to see anything of it at all. At seven o'clock I was at HageStation, very tired, wet, and footsore, after covering nearlytwenty miles all told since I left my bed in the lighter.

From here to Norden it was a run in the train of ten minutes,which I spent in eating some rye bread and smoked eel, and inscraping the mud off my boots and trousers. Fatigue vanished whenthe train drew up at the station, and the momentous twenty-eightminutes began to run their course. Having donned a bulky mufflerand turned up the collar of my pea-jacket, I crossed overimmediately to the up-platform, walked boldly to thebooking-office, and at once sighted—von Brüning—yes,von Brüning in mufti; but there was no mistaking his tall athleticfigure, pleasant features, and neat brown beard. He was justleaving the window, gathering up a ticket and some coins. I joineda queue of three or four persons who were waiting theirturn, flattened myself between them and the partition till I heardhim walk out. Not having heard what station he had booked for, Itook a fourth-class ticket to Wittmund, which covered all chances.Then, with my chin buried in my muffler, I sought the darkestcorner of the ill-lit combination of bar and waiting-room where, bythe tiresome custom in Germany, would-be travellers are penned tilltheir train is ready. Von Brüning I perceived sitting in anothercorner, with his hat over his eyes and a cigar between his lips. Aboy brought me a tankard of tawny Munich beer, and, sipping it, Iwatched. People passed in and out, but nobody spoke to the sailorin mufti. When a quarter of an hour elapsed, a platform dooropened, and a raucous voice shouted: "Hage, Dornum, Esens,Wittmund!" A knot of passengers jostled out to the platform,showing their tickets. I was slow over my beer, and was last of theknot, with von Brüning immediately ahead of me, so close that hiscigar-smoke curled into my face. I looked over his shoulder at theticket he showed, missed the name, but caught a muttered doublesibilant from the official who checked it; ran over the stations inmy head, and pounced on Esens. That was as much I wanted toknow for the present; so I made my way to a fourth-classcompartment, and lost sight of my quarry, not venturing, till thelast door had banged, to look out of the window. When I did so twolate arrivals were hurrying up to a carriage—one tall, one ofmiddle height; both in cloaks and comforters. Their features Icould not distinguish, but certainly neither of them was Böhme.They had not come through the waiting-room door, but, plainly, fromthe dark end of the platform, where they had been waiting. A guard,with some surly remonstrances, shut them in, and the trainstarted.

Esens—the name had not surprised me; it fulfilled apresentiment that had been growing in strength all the afternoon.For the last time I referred to the map, pulpy and blurred with theday's exposure, and tried to etch it into my brain. I marked theroad to Bensersiel, and how it converged by degrees on the BenserTief until they met at the sea. "The tide serves!" Longing forDavies to help me, I reckoned, by the aid of my diary, that hightide at Bensersiel would be about eleven, and for two hours, Iremembered (say from ten to twelve to-night), there were from fiveto six feet of water in the harbour.

We should reach Esens at 8.50. Would they drive, as von Brüninghad done a week ago? I tightened my belt, stamped my mud-burdenedboots, and thanked God for the Munich beer. Whither were they goingfrom Bensersiel, and in what; and how was I to follow them? Thesewere nebulous questions, but I was in fettle for anything;boat-stealing was a bagatelle. Fortune, I thought, smiled; Romancebeckoned; even the sea looked kind. Ay, and I do not know but thatImagination was already beginning to unstiffen and flutter thosenerveless wings.

CHAPTER XXVII.
The Luck of the Stowaway

At Esens Station I reversed my Norden tactics, jumped outsmartly, and got to the door of egress first of all, gave up myticket, and hung about the gate of the station under cover ofdarkness. Fortune smiled still; there was no vehicle in waiting atall, and there were only half a dozen passengers. Two of these werethe cloaked gentlemen who had been so nearly left behind at Norden,and another was von Brüning. The latter walked well in advance ofthe first pair, but at the gate on to the high road the threeshowed a common purpose, in that, unlike the rest, who turnedtowards Esens town, they turned southwards; much to my perplexity,for this was the contrary direction to Bensersiel and the sea. I,with my bundle on my shoulder, had been bringing up the rear, and,as their faithful shadow, turned to the right too, withoutforeseeing the consequence. When it was too late to turn back I sawthat, fifty yards ahead, the road was barred by the gates of alevel crossing, and that the four of us must inevitably accumulateat the barrier till the train had steamed away. This, in fact,happened, and for a minute or two we were all in a group,elaborately indifferent to one another, silent, but I am sure veryconscious. As for me, "secret laughter tickled all my soul". Whenthe gates were opened the three seemed disposed to lag, so Itactfully took my cue, trudged briskly on ahead, and stopped aftera few minutes to listen. Hearing nothing I went cautiously back andfound that they had disappeared; in which direction was not long indoubt, for I came on a grassy path leading into the fields on theleft or west of the road, and though I could see no one I heard thedistant murmur of receding voices.

I took my bearings collectedly, placed one foot on the path,thought better of it, and turned back towards Esens. I knew withoutreference to the map that that path would bring them to the BenserTief at a point somewhere near the timber-yard. In a fog I mighthave followed them there; as it was, the night was none too dark,and I had my strength to husband; and stamped on my memory were thewords "the tide serves". I judged it a wiser use of time and sinewto anticipate them at Bensersiel by the shortest road, leaving themto reach it by way of the devious Tief, to examine which was, Ifelt convinced, one of their objects.

It was nine o'clock of a fresh wild night, a halo round thebeclouded moon. I passed through quiet Esens, and in an hour I wasclose to Bensersiel, and could hear the sea. In the rooted ideathat I should find Grimm on the outskirts, awaiting visitors, Ileft the road short of the village, and made a circuit to theharbour by way of the sea-wall. The lower windows of the inn shed awarm glow into the night, and within I could see the village circlegathered over cards, and dominated as of old by the assertivelittle postmaster, whose high-pitched, excitable voice I couldclearly distinguish, as he sat with his cap on the back of his headand a "feine schnapps" at his elbow. The harbour itself lookedexactly the same as I remembered it a week ago. The post-boat layin her old berth at the eastern jetty, her mainsail set and hertwin giants spitting over the rail. I hailed them boldly from theshore (without showing them who I was), and was told they werestarting for Langeoog in a few minutes; the wind was off-shore, themails aboard, and the water just high enough. "Did I want apassage?" "No, I thought I would wait." Positive that my partycould never have got here so soon, I nevertheless kept an eye onthe galliot till she let go her stern-rope and slid away. Onecontingency was eliminated. Some loiterers dispersed, and all portbusiness appeared to be ended for the night.

Three-quarters of an hour of strained suspense ensued. Most ofit I spent on my knees in a dark angle between the dyke and thewestern jetty, whence I had a strategic survey of the basin; but Iwas driven at times to relieve inaction by sallies which increasedin audacity. I scouted on the road beyond the bridge, hovered roundthe lock, and peered in at the inn parlour; but nowhere could I seea trace of Grimm. I examined every floating object in the harbour(they were very few), dropped on to two lighters and pried undertarpaulins, boarded a deserted tug and two or three clumsy rowboatstied up to a mooring-post. Only one of these had the look ofreadiness, the rest being devoid of oars and rowlocks; adiscouraging state of things for a prospective boat-lifter. It wasthe sight of these rowboats that suggested a last and mostdistracting possibility, namely, that the boat in waiting, if boatthere were, might be not in the harbour at all, but somewhere onthe sands outside the dyke, where, at this high state of the tide,it would have water and to spare. Back to the dyke then; but as Ipeered seaward on the way, contingencies evaporated and a solidfact supervened, for I saw the lights of a steamboat approachingthe harbour mouth. I had barely time to gain my coign of vantagebefore she had swept in between the piers, and with a fitfulswizzling of her screw was turning and backing down to a berth justahead of one of the lighters, and not fifty feet from myhiding-place. A deck-hand jumped ashore with a rope, while the manat the wheel gave gruff directions. The vessel was a small tug, andthe man at the wheel disclosed his identity when, having rung offhis engines, he jumped ashore also, looked at his watch in the beamof the sidelight, and walked towards the village. It was Grimm, bythe height and build—Grimm clad in a long tarpaulin coat anda sou'wester. I watched him cross the shaft of light from the innwindow and disappear in the direction of the canal.

Another sailor now appeared and helped his fellow to tie up thetug. The two together then went aft and began to set about some jobwhose nature I could not determine. To emerge was perilous, so Iset about a job of my own, tearing open my bundle and pulling anoilskin jacket and trousers over my clothes, and discarding mypeaked cap for a sou'-wester. This operation was promptedinstantaneously by the garb of two sailors, who in hauling on theforward warp came into the field of the mast-head light.

It was something of a gymnastic masterpiece, since I waslying—or, rather, standing aslant—on the roughsea-wall, with crannies of brick for foothold and the waterplashing below me; but then I had not lived in theDulcibella for nothing. My chain of thought, I fancy, wasthis—the tug is to carry my party; I cannot shadow a tug in arowboat, yet I intend to shadow my party; I must therefore go withthem in the tug, and the first and soundest step is to mimic hercrew. But the next step was a hard matter, for the crew havingfinished their job sat side by side on the bulwarks and lit theirpipes. However, a little pantomime soon occurred, as amusing as itwas inspiriting. They seemed to consult together, looking from thetug to the inn and from the inn to the tug. One of them walked afew paces inn-wards and beckoned to the other, who in his turncalled something down the engine-room skylight, and then joined hismate in a scuttle to the inn. Even while I watched the pantomime Iwas sliding off my boots, and it had not been consummated a secondbefore I had them in my arms and was tripping over the mud in mystocking feet. A dozen noiseless steps and I was over the bulwarksbetween the wheel and the smoke-stack, casting about for ahiding-place. The conventional stowaway hides in the hold, butthere was only a stokehold here, occupied moreover; nor was therean empty apple-barrel, such as Jim of Treasure Island foundso useful. As far as I could see—and I dared not venture farfor fear of the skylight—the surface of the deck offerednothing secure. But on the farther or starboard side, rather abaftthe beam, there was a small boat in davits, swung outboard, towhich common sense, and perhaps a vague prescience of its afterutility, pointed irresistibly. In any case, discrimination was outof place, so I mounted the bulwark and gently entered my refuge.The tackles creaked a trifle, oars and seats impeded me; but wellbefore the thirsty truants had returned I was settled on the floorboards between two thwarts, so placed that I could, if necessary,peep over the gunwale.

The two sailors returned at a run, and very soon after voicesapproached, and I recognised that of Herr Schenkel chatteringvolubly. He and Grimm boarded the tug and went down a companionwayaft, near which, as I peeped over, I saw a second skylight, nobigger than the Dulcibella's, illuminated from below. Then Iheard a cork drawn, and the kiss of glasses, and in a minute or twothey re-emerged. It was apparent that Herr Schenkel was inclined tostay and make merry, and that Grimm was anxious to get rid of him,and none too courteous in showing it. The former urged thatto-morrow's tide would do, the latter gave orders to cast off, andat length observed with an angry oath that the water was falling,and he must start; and, to clinch matters, with a curt good-night,he went to the wheel and rang up his engines. Herr Schenkel landedand strutted off in high dudgeon, while the tug's screw began torevolve. We had only glided a few yards on when the enginesstopped, a short blast of the whistle sounded, and, before I hadhad time to recast the future, I heard a scurry of footsteps fromthe direction of the dyke, first on the bank, next on the deck. Thelast of these new arrivals panted audibly as he got aboard anddropped on the planks with an unelastic thud.

Her complement made up, the tug left the harbour, but not alone.While slowly gathering way the hull checked all at once with asharp jerk, recovered, and increased its speed. We had something intow—what? The lighter, of course, that had been lying asternof us.

Now I knew what was in that lighter, because I had been to see,half an hour ago. It was no lethal cargo, but coal, commonhousehold coal; not a full load of it, I remembered—just agood-sized mound amidships, trimmed with battens fore and aft toprevent shifting. "Well," thought I, "this is intelligible enough.Grimm was ostensibly there to call for a load of coal for Memmert.But does that mean we are going to Memmert?" At the same time Irecalled a phrase overheard at the depôt, "Only one—half aload." Why half a load?

For some few minutes there was a good deal of movement on deck,and of orders shouted by Grimm and answered by a voice from farastern on the lighter. Presently, however, the tug warmed to herwork, the hull vibrated with energy, and an ordered peace reignedon board. I also realised that having issued from the boomedchannel we had turned westward, for the wind, which had beenblowing us fair, now blew strongly over the port beam.

I peeped out of my eyrie and was satisfied in a moment that aslong as I made no noise, and observed proper prudence, I wasperfectly safe until the boat was wanted. There were no decklamps; the two skylights diffused but a sickly radiance, and I wasabaft the side-lights. I was abaft the wheel also, thoughthrillingly near it in point of distance—about twelve feet, Ishould say; and Grimm was steering. The wheel, I should mentionhere, was raised, as you often see them, on a sort of pulpit,approached by two or three steps and fenced by a breast-high arc ofboarding. Only one of the crew was visible, and he was acting aslook-out in the extreme bows, the rays of the mastheadlights—for a second had been hoisted in sign oftowage—glistening on his oilskin back. The other man, Iconcluded, was steering the lighter, which I could dimly locate bythe pale foam at her bow.

And the passengers? They were all together aft, three of them,leaning over the taffrail, with their backs turned to me. One wasshort and stout—Böhme unquestionably; the panting and thethud on the planks had prepared me for that, though where he hadsprung from I did not know. Two were tall, and one of these must bevon Brüning. There ought to be four, I reckoned; but three were allI could see. And what of the third? It must be he who "insists oncoming", the unknown superior at whose instance and for whosebehoof this secret expedition had been planned. And who could hebe? Many times, needless to say, I had asked myself that question,but never till now, when I had found the rendezvous and joined theexpedition, did it become one of burning import.

"Any weather" was another of those stored-up phrases that wereà propos. It was a dirty, squally night, not very cold, forthe wind still hung in the S.S.W.—an off-shore wind on thiscoast, causing no appreciable sea on the shoal spaces we weretraversing. In the matter of our bearings, I set myself doggedly toovercome that paralysing perplexity, always induced in me by nightor fog in these intricate waters; and, by screwing round and round,succeeded so far as to discover and identify two flashinglights—one alternately red and white, far and faint astern;the other right ahead and rather stronger, giving white flashesonly. The first and least familiar was, I made out, from thelighthouse on Wangeroog; the second, well known to me as our beaconstar in the race from Memmert, was the light on the centre ofNorderney Island, about ten miles away.

I had no accurate idea of the time, for I could not see mywatch, but I thought we must have started about a quarter pasteleven. We were travelling fast, the funnel belching out smoke andthe bow-wave curling high; for the tug appeared to be a powerfullittle craft, and her load was comparatively light.

So much for the general situation. As for my own predicament, Iwas in no mood to brood on the hazards of this mad adventure, ahundredfold more hazardous than my fog-smothered eavesdropping atMemmert. The crisis, I knew, had come, and the reckless impudencethat had brought me here must serve me still and extricate me.Fortune loves rough wooing. I backed my luck and watched.

The behaviour of the passengers struck me as odd. They remainedin a row at the taffrail, gazing astern like regretful emigrants,and sometimes, gesticulating and pointing. Now no vestige of thelow land was visible, so I was driven to the conclusion that it wasthe lighter they were discussing; and I date my awakening from themoment that I realised this. But the thread broke prematurely; forthe passengers took to pacing the deck, and I had to lie low. Whennext I was able to raise my head they were round Grimm at thewheel, engaged, as far as I could discover from their gestures, inan argument about our course and the time, for Grimm looked at hiswatch by the light of a hand-lantern.

We were heading north, and I knew by the swell that we must benear the Accumer Ee, the gap between Langeoog and Baltrum. Were wegoing out to open sea? It came over me with a rush that wemust, if we were to drop this lighter at Memmert. Had I beenDavies I should have been quicker to seize certain rigid conditionsof this cruise, which no human power could modify. We had leftafter high tide. The water therefore was falling everywhere; andthe tributary channels in rear of the islands were slowly growingimpassable. It was quite thirty miles to Memmert, with threewatersheds to pass; behind Baltrum, Norderney, and Juist. A skipperwith nerve and perfect confidence might take us over one of thesein the dark, but most of the run would infallibly have to be madeoutside. I now better understood the protests of Herr Schenkel toGrimm. Never once had we seen a lighter in tow in the open sea,though plenty behind the barrier of islands; indeed it was the veryexistence of the sheltered byways that created such traffic asthere was. It was only Grimm's métier and the incubus of thelighter that had suggested Memmert as our destination at all, and Ibegan to doubt it now. That tricky hoop of sand had befooled usbefore.

At this moment, and as if to corroborate my thought, thetelegraph rang and the tug slowed down. I effaced myself and heardGrimm shouting to the man on the lighter to starboard his helm, andto the look-out to come aft. The next order froze my very marrow;it was "lower away". Someone was at the davits of my boat fingeringthe tackles; the forward fall-rope actually slipped in the blockand tilted the boat a fraction. I was just wondering how far it wasto swim to Langeoog, when a strong, imperious voice (unknown to me)rang out, "No, no! We don't want the boat. The swell's nothing; wecan jump! Can't we, Böhme?" The speaker ended with a jovial laugh."Mercy!" thought I, "are they going to swim to Langeoog?"but I also gasped for relief. The tug rolled lifelessly in theswell for a little, and footsteps retreated aft. There were criesof "Achtung!" and some laughter, one big bump and a good deal ofgrinding; and on we moved again, taking the strain of the tow-ropegingerly, and then full-speed ahead. The passengers, it seemed,preferred the lighter to the tug for cruising in; coal-dust andexposure to clean planks and a warm cuddy. When silence reignedagain I peeped out. Grimm was at the wheel still, impassivelytwirling the spokes, with a glance over his shoulder at hisprecious freight. And, after all, we were going outside.

Close on the port hand lay a black foam-girt shape, the eastspit of Baltrum. It fused with the night, while we swung slowlyround to windward over the troubled bar. Now we were in thespacious deeps of the North Sea; and feeling it too in increase ofswell and volleys of spray.

At this point evolutions began. Grimm gave the wheel up to thelook-out, and himself went to the taffrail, whence he roared backorders of "Port!" or "Starboard!" in response to signals from thelighter. We made one complete circle, steering on each point of thewind in succession, after that worked straight out to sea till thewater was a good deal rougher, and back again at a tangent, till inearshot of the surf on the island beach. There the manœuvres,which were clearly in the nature of a trial trip, ended; and wehove to, to transship our passengers. They, when they came aboard,went straight below, and Grimm, having steadied the tug on asettled course and entrusted the wheel to the sailor again,stripped off his dripping oilskin coat, threw it down on the cabinskylight, and followed them. The course he had set was about west,with Norderney light a couple of points off the port bow. Thecourse for Memmert? Possibly; but I cared not, for my mind was farfrom Memmert to-night. It was the course for England too.Yes, I understood at last. I was assisting at an experimentalrehearsal of a great scene, to be enacted, perhaps, in the nearfuture—a scene when multitudes of seagoing lighters, carryingfull loads of soldiers, not half loads of coals, should issuesimultaneously, in seven ordered fleets, from seven shallowoutlets, and, under escort of the Imperial Navy, traverse the NorthSea and throw themselves bodily upon English shores.

Indulgent reader, you may be pleased to say that I have beenvery obtuse; and yet, with humility, I protest against thatverdict. Remember that, recent as are the events I am describing,it is only since they happened that the possibility of an invasionof England by Germany has become a topic of public discussion.Davies and I had never—I was going to say had neverconsidered it; but that would not be accurate, for we had glancedat it once or twice; and if any single incident in his or our jointcruise had provided a semblance of confirmation, he, at any rate,would have kindled to that spark. But you will see how perverselyfrom first to last circ*mstances drove us deeper and deeper intothe wrong groove, till the idea became inveterate that the secretwe were seeking was one of defence and not offence. Hence acomplete mental somersault was required, and, as an amateur, Ifound it difficult; the more so that the method of invasion, as Idarkly comprehended it now, was of such a strange and unprecedentedcharacter; for orthodox invasions start from big ports and involvea fleet of ocean transports, while none of our clues pointed thatway. To neglect obvious methods, to draw on the obscure resourcesof an obscure strip of coast, to improve and exploit a quantity ofinsignificant streams and tidal outlets, and thence, screened bythe islands, to despatch an armada of light-draught barges, capableof flinging themselves on a correspondingly obscure and thereforeunexpected portion of the enemy's coast; that was a conception sodaring, aye, and so quixotic in some of its aspects, that even nowI was half incredulous. Yet it must be the true one. Bit by bit thefragments of the puzzle fell into order till a coherent whole wasadumbrated. [The reader will find the whole matter dealt with inthe Epilogue.]

The tug surged on into the night; a squall of rain leapt upon usand swept hissing astern. Baltrum vanished and the strands ofNorderney beamed under transient moonlight. Drunk with triumph, Icuddled in my rocking cradle and ransacked every unvisited chamberof the memory, tossing out their dusty contents, to make a joyousbonfire of some, and to see the residue take life and meaning inthe light of the great revelation.

My reverie was of things, not persons; of vast national issuesrather than of the poignant human interests so closely linked withthem. But on a sudden I was recalled, with a shock, to myself,Davies, and the present.

We were changing our course, as I knew by variations in thewhirl of draughts which whistled about me. I heard Grimm afootagain, and, choosing my moment, surveyed the scene. Broad on theport-beam were the garish lights of Norderney town and promenade,and the tug, I perceived, was drawing in to enter the See Gat.[See Chart B.]

Round she came, hustling through the broken water of the bar,till her nose was south and the wind was on the starboard bow. Nota mile from me were the villa and the yacht, and the three personsof the drama—three, that is, if Davies were safe.

Were we to land at Norderney harbour? Heavens, what amagnificent climax!—if only I could rise to it. My work herewas done. At a stroke to rejoin Davies and be free to consummateour designs!

A desperate idea of cutting the davit-tackles—I blush tothink of the stupidity—was rejected as soon as it was born,and instead, I endeavoured to imagine our approach to the pier. Myboat hung on the starboard side; that would be the side away fromthe quay, and the tide would be low. I could swarm down the davitsduring the stir of arrival, drop into the sea and swim the fewyards across the dredged-out channel, wade through the mud towithin a short distance of the Dulcibella, and swim therest. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes and wriggled my crampedlegs.... Hullo! why was Grimm leaving the helm again? Back he wentto the cabin, leaving the sailor at the helm.... We ought to beturning to port now; but no—on we went, south, for themainland.

Though one plan was frustrated, the longing to get to Davies,once implanted, waxed apace.

Our destination was at last beyond dispute. [See Chart.]The channel we were in was the same that we had cut across on ourblind voyage to Memmert, and the same my ferry-steamer had followedtwo days ago. It was a cul-de-sac leading to one place only,the landing stage at Norddeich. The only place on the whole coast,now I came to think of it, where the tug could land at this tide.There the quay would be on the starboard side, and I saw myselftied to my eyrie while the passengers landed and the tug andlighter turned back for Memmert; at Memmert, dawn, anddiscovery.

There was some way out—some way out, I repeated to myself;some way to reap the fruit of Davies's long tutelage in the lore ofthis strange region. What would he do?

For answer there came the familiar frou-frou of gentlesurf on drying sands. The swell was dying away, the channelnarrowing; dusky and weird on the starboard hand stretched leaguesof new-risen sand. Two men only were on deck; the moon was quenchedunder the vanguard clouds of a fresh squall.

A madcap scheme danced before me. The time, I must knowthe time! Crouching low and cloaking the flame with my jacket Istruck a match; 2.30 a.m.—the tide had been ebbing for aboutthree hours and a half. Low water about five; they would be agroundtill 7.30. Danger to life? None. Flares and rescuers? Not likely,with "him who insists" on board; besides, no one could come, therebeing no danger. I should have a fair wind and a fair tide formy trip. Grimm's coat was on the skylight; we were bothclean-shaved.

The helmsman gazed ahead, intent on his difficult course, andthe wind howled to perfection. I knelt up and examined one of thedavit-tackles. There was nothing remarkable about it, a double anda single block (like our own peak halyards), the lower one hookedinto a ring in the boat, the hauling part made fast to a cleat onthe davit itself. Something there must be to give lateral supportor the boat would have racketed abroad in the roll outside. Thesupport, I found, consisted of two lanyards spliced to the davitsand rove through holes in the keel. These I leaned over and cutwith my pocket-knife; the result being a barely perceptible swayingof the boat, for the tug was under the lee of sands and on an evenkeel. Then I left my hiding-place, climbing out of the stern sheetsby the after-davit, and preparing every successive motion withexquisite tenderness, till I stood on the deck. In another moment Iwas at the cabin skylight, lifting Grimm's long oilskin coat. (Asecond's yielding to temptation here; but no, the skylight wasground glass, fastened from below. So, on with the coat, up withthe collar, and forward to the wheel on tiptoe.) As soon as I wasup to the engine-room skylight (that is to say, well ahead of thecabin roof) I assumed a natural step, went up to the pulpit andtouched the helmsman on the arm, as I had seen Grimm do. The manstepped aside, grunting something about a light, and I took thewheel from him. Grimm was a man of few words, so I just jogged hissatellite, and pointed forward. He went off like a lamb to hiscustomary place in the bows, not having dreamt—why shouldhe?—of examining me, but in him I had instantly recognisedone of the crew of the Kormoran.

My ruse developed in all its delicious simplicity. We were, Iestimated, about half-way to Norddeich, in the Buse Tief, a channelof a navigable breadth, at the utmost of two hundred yards at thisperiod of the tide. Two faint lights, one above the other, twinkledfar ahead. What they meant I neither knew nor cared, since the onlyuse I put them to was to test the effect of the wheel, for this wasthe first time I had ever tasted the sweets of command on asteamboat. A few cautious essays taught me the rudiments, andnothing could hinder the catastrophe now.

I edged over to starboard—that was the side I hadselected—and again a little more, till the glistening back ofthe look-out gave a slight movement; but he was a well-drilledminion, with implicit trust in the "old man". Now, hard over! andspoke by spoke I gave her the full pressure of the helm. Thelook-out shouted a warning, and I raised my arm in calmacknowledgement. A cry came from the lighter, and I remember I wasjust thinking "What the Dickens'll happen to her?" when the endcame; a euthanasia so mild and gradual (for the sands arefringed with mud) that the disaster was on us before I was aware ofit. There was just the tiniest premonitory shuddering as our keelclove the buttery medium, a cascade of ripples from either beam,and the wheel jammed to rigidity in my hands, as the tug nestled upto her resting-place.

In the scene of panic that followed, it is safe to say that Iwas the only soul on board who acted with methodical tranquillity.The look-out flew astern like an arrow, bawling to the lighter.Grimm, with the passengers tumbling up after him, was on deck in aninstant, storming and cursing; flung himself on the wheel which Ihad respectfully abandoned, jangled the telegraph, and wrenched atthe spokes. The tug listed over under the force of the tide; wind,darkness, and rain aggravated the confusion.

For my part, I stepped back behind the smoke stack, threw off myrobe of office, and made for the boat. Long and bitter experienceof running aground had told me that that was sure to be wanted. Onthe way I cannoned into one of the passengers and pressed him intomy service; incidentally seeing his face, and verifying an oldconjecture. It was one who, in Germany, has a better right toinsist than anyone else.

As we reached the davits there was a report like a pistol-shotfrom the port-side—the tow-rope parting, I believe, as thelighter with her shallower draught swung on past the tug. Freshtumult arose, in which I heard: "Lower the boat," from Grimm; butthe order was already executed. My ally the Passenger and I hadeach cast off a tackle, and slacked away with a run; that done, Ipromptly clutched the wire guy to steady myself, and tumbled in.(It was not far to tumble, for the tug listed heavily to starboard;think of our course, and the set of the ebb stream, and you willsee why.) The forward fall unhooked sweetly; but the after one lostplay. "Slack away," I called, peremptorily, and felt for my knife.My helper above obeyed; the hook yielded; I filliped away the loosetackle, and the boat floated away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
We Achieve our Double Aim

When, exactly, the atmosphere of misunderstanding on thestranded tug was dissipated, I do not know, for by the time I hadfitted the rowlocks and shipped sculls, tide and wind had caughtme, and were sweeping me merrily back on the road to Norderney,whose lights twinkled through the scud in the north. With my firstfew strokes I made towards the lighter—which I could seesagging helplessly to leeward—but as soon as I thought I wasout of sight of the tug, I pulled round and worked out my ownsalvation. There was an outburst of shouting which soon died away.Full speed on a falling tide! They were pinned there for five hourssure. It was impossible to miss the way, and with my stout alliesheaving me forward, I made short work of the two-mile passage.There was a sharp tussle at the last, where the Riff Gat poured itsstream across my path, and then I was craning over my shoulder, Godknows with what tense anxiety, for the low hull and taper mast ofthe Dulcibella. Not there! No, not where I had left her. Ipulled furiously up the harbour past a sleeping ferry-steamerand—praise Heaven!—came on her warped alongside thejetty.

"Who's that?" came from below, as I stepped on board.

"Hush! it's me." And Davies and I were pawing one another in thedark of the cabin.

"Are you all right, old chap?" said he.

"Yes; are you? A match! What's the time? Quick!"

"Good Heavens, Carruthers, what the blazes have you done toyourself?" (I suspect I cut a pretty figure after my two days'outing.)

"Ten past three. It's the invasion of England! Is Dollmann atthe villa?"

"Invasion?"

"Is Dollmann at the villa?"

"Yes."

"Is the Medusa afloat?"

"No, on the mud."

"The devil! Are we afloat?"

"I think so still, but they made me shift."

"Think! Track her out! Pole her out! Cut those warps!"

For a few strenuous minutes we toiled at the sweeps till theDulcibella was berthed ahead of the steamer, in deeperwater. Meanwhile I had whispered a few facts.

"How soon can you get under way?" I asked.

"Ten minutes."

"When's daylight?"

"Sunrise about seven, first dawn about five. Where are webound?"

"Holland, or England."

"Are they invading it now?" said Davies, calmly.

"No, only rehearsing!" I laughed, wildly.

"Then we can wait."

"We can wait exactly an hour and a half. Come ashore and knockup Dollmann; we must denounce him, and get them both aboard; it'snow or never. Holy Saints! man, not as you are!" (He was inpyjamas.) "Sea clothes!"

While he put on Christian attire, I resumed my facts andsketched a plan. "Are you watched?" I asked.

"I think so; by the Kormoran's men."

"Is the Kormoran here?"

"Yes."

"The men?"

"Not to-night. Grimm called for them in that tug. I waswatching. And, Carruthers, the Blitz is here."

"Where?"

"In the roads outside—didn't you see her?"

"Wasn't looking. Her skipper's safe anyway; so's Böhme, so's theTertium Quid, and so are the Kormoran's men. The coast'sclear—it's now or never."

Once more we were traversing the long jetty and the silentstreets, rain driving at our backs. We trod on air, I think; Iremember no fatigue. Davies sometimes broke into a little run,muttering "scoundrel" to himself.

"I was right—only upside down," he murmured more thanonce. "Always really right—those channels are the key to thewhole concern. Chatham, our only eastern base—no North Seabase or squadron—they'd land at one of those God-forsakenflats off the Crouch and Blackwater."

"It seems a wild scheme," I observed.

"Wild? In a way. So is any invasion. But it's thorough;it's German. No other country could do it. It's all dawning onme—by Jove! It will be at the Wash—much thenearest, and as sandy as this side."

"How's Dollmann been?" I asked.

"Polite, but queer and jumpy. It's too long a story."

"Clara?"

"She's all right. By Jove! Carruthers—nevermind."

We found a night-bell at the villa door and rang it lustily. Awindow aloft opened, and "A message from Commander vonBrüning—urgent," I called up.

The window shut, and soon after the hall was lighted and thedoor opened by Dollmann in a dressing-gown.

"Good morning, Lieutenant X——," I said, in English."Stop, we're friends, you fool!" as the door was flung nearly to.It opened very slowly again, and we walked in.

"Silence!" he hissed. The sweat stood on his steep forehead anda hectic flush on either cheek, but there was a smile—what asmile!—on his lips. Motioning us to tread noiselessly (a vainideal for me), he led the way to the sitting-room we knew, switchedon the light, and faced us.

"Well?" he said, in English, still smiling.

I consulted my watch, and I may say that if my hand was an indexto my general appearance, I must have looked the most abjectruffian under heaven.

"We probably understand one another," I said, "and to explain isto lose time. We sail for Holland, or perhaps England, at five atthe latest, and we want the pleasure of your company. We promiseyou immunity—on certain conditions, which can wait. We haveonly two berths, so that we can only accommodate Miss Clara besidesyourself." He smiled on through this terse harangue, but the smilefroze, as though beneath it raged some crucial debate. Suddenly helaughed (a low, ironical laugh).

"You fools," he said, "you confounded meddlesome young idiots; Ithought I had done with you. Promise me immunity? Give me tillfive? By God, I'll give you five minutes to be off to England andbe damned to you, or else to be locked up for spies! What the devildo you take me for?"

"A traitor in German service," said Davies, none too firmly. Wewere both taken aback by this slashing attack.

"A tr——? You pig-headed young marplots! I'm inBritish service! You're wrecking the work of years—andon the very threshold of success."

For an instant Davies and I looked at one another instupefaction. He lied—I could swear he lied; but how makesure?

"Why did you try to wreck Davies?" said I, mechanically.

"Pshaw! They made me clear him out. I knew he was safe, and safehe is."

There was only one thing for it—a last finesse, to put himto the proof.

"Very well," I said, after a moment or two, "we'll clearout—silence, Davies!—as it appears we have acted inerror; but it's right to tell you that we know everything."

"Not so loud, curse you! What do you know?"

"I was taking notes at Memmert the other night."

"Impossible!"

"Thanks to Davies. Under difficulties, of course, but I heardquite enough. You were reporting your English tour—Chatham,you know, and the English scheme of attack, a mythical one, nodoubt, as you're on the right side! Böhme and the rest were dealingwith the German scheme of defence A to G—I heard itall—the seven islands and the seven channels between them(Davies knows every one of them by heart); and then on land, thering of railway, Esens the centre, the army corps to mobilise andentrench—all nugatory, wasted, ha! ha!—as you're on theright s——"

"Not so loud, you fiend of mischief!" He turned his back, andmade an irresolute pace or two towards the door, his hands kneadingthe folds of his dressing-gown as they had kneaded the curtain atMemmert. Twice he began a question and twice broke off. "Icongratulate you, gentlemen," he said, finally, and with morecomposure, facing us again, "you have done marvels in yourmisplaced zeal; but you have compromised me too much already. Ishall have to have you arrested—purely for form'ssake——"

"Thank you," I broke in. "We have wasted five minutes, and timepresses. We sail at five, and—purely for form'ssake—would rather have you with us."

"What do you mean?" he snarled.

"I had the advantage of you at Memmert, in spite ofacoustic obstacles. Your friends made an appointment behind yourback, and I, in my misplaced zeal, have taken some trouble toattend it; so that I've had a working demonstration on anothermatter, the invasion of England from the seven siels."(Davies nudged me.) "No, I should let that pistol alone; and no, Iwouldn't ring the bell. You can arrest us if you like, but thesecret's in safe hands."

"You lie!" He was right there; but he could not know it.

"Do you suppose I haven't taken that precaution? But no namesare mentioned." He gave a sort of groan, sank into a chair, andseemed to age and grizzle before our very eyes.

"What did you say about immunity, and Clara?" he muttered."We're friends—we're friends!" burst out Davies, with a gulpin his voice. "We want to help you both." (Through a sudden mistthat filmed my eyes I saw him impetuously walk over and lay hishand on the other's shoulder.) "Those chaps are on our track andyours. Come with us. Wake her, tell her. It'll be too latesoon."

X—— shrank from his touch. "Tell her? I can't tellher. You tell her, boy." He was huddling back into his chair.Davies turned to me.

"Where's her room?" I said, sharply.

"Above this one."

"Go up, Carruthers," said Davies.

"Not I—I shall frighten her into a fit."

"I don't like to."

"Nonsense, man! We'll both go then."

"Don't make a noise," said a dazed voice. We left that huddledfigure and stole upstairs—thickly carpeted stairs, luckily.The door we wanted was half open, and the room behind it lighted.On the threshold stood a slim white figure, bare-footed;bare-throated.

"What is it, father?" she called in a whisper. "Whom have youbeen talking to?" I pushed Davies forward, but he hung back.

"Hush, don't be frightened," I said, "it's I, Carruthers, andDavies—and Davies. May we come in, just for one moment?"

I gently widened the opening of the door, while she stepped backand put one hand to her throat.

"Please come to your father," I said. "We are going to take youboth to England in the Dulcibella—now, at once."

She had heard me, but her eyes wandered to Davies.

"I understand not," she faltered, trembling and cowering in suchtouching bewilderment that I could not bear to look at her.

"For God's sake, say something, Davies," I muttered.

"Clara!" said Davies, "will you not trust us?"

I heard a little gasp from her. There was a flutter of lace andcambric and she was in his arms, sobbing like a tired child, herlittle white feet between his great clumsy sea-boots—herrose-brown cheek on his rough jersey.

"It's past four, old chap," I remarked, brutally. "I'm goingdown to him again. No packing to speak of, mind. They must be outof this in half an hour." I stumbled awkwardly on the stairs (againthat tiresome film!) and found him stuffing some papers pell-mellinto the stove. There were only slumbering embers in it, but he didnot seem to notice that. "You must be dressed in half an hour," Isaid, furtively pocketing a pistol which lay on the table.

"Have you told her? Take her to England, you two boys. I thinkI'll stay." He sank into a chair again.

"Nonsense, she won't go without you. You must, for hersake—in half an hour, too."

I prefer to pass that half-hour lightly over. Davies left beforeme to prepare the yacht for sea, and I had to bear the brunt ofwhat followed, including (as a mere episode) a scene with thestep-mother, the memory of which rankles in me yet. After all, shewas a sensible woman.

As for the other two, the girl when I saw her next, in her shortboating skirt and tam-o'-shanter, was a miracle of coolness andpluck. But for her I should never have got him away. And ah! howgood it was to be out in the wholesome rain again, hurrying to theharbour with my two charges, hurrying them down the greasy ladderto that frail atom of English soil, their first guerdon of home andsafety.

Our flight from the harbour was unmolested, unnoticed. Only thefirst ghastly evidences of dawn were mingling with the strangledmoonlight, as we tacked round the pier-head and headed close-reefeddown the Riff Gat on the lees of the ebb-tide. We had to pass underthe very quarter of the Blitz, so Davies said; for, ofcourse, he alone was on deck till we reached the open sea. Day wasbreaking then. It was dead low water, and, far away to the south,between dun swathes of sand, I thought I saw—but probably itwas only a fancy—two black stranded specks. Rail awash, anddecks streaming, we took the outer swell and clawed close-hauledunder the lee of Juist, westward, hurrying westward.

"Up the Ems on the flood, and to Dutch Delfzyl," I urged. No,thought Davies; it was too near Germany, and there was a tidal cutthrough from Buse Tief. Better to dodge in behind Rottum Island. Soon we pressed, past Memmert, over the Juister Reef and theCorinne's buried millions, across the two broad and yeastymouths of the Ems, till Rottum, a wee lonesome wafer of an islet,the first of the Dutch archipelago, was close on theweather-bow.

"We must get in behind that," said Davies, "then we shall besafe; I think I know the way, but get the next chart; and then takea rest, old chap. Clara and I can manage." (She had been on deckmost of the time, as capable a hand as you could wish for, betterfar than I in my present state of exhaustion.) I crawled along theslippery sloping planks and went below.

"Where are we?" cried Dollmann, starting up from the lee sofa,where he seemed to have been lying in a sort of trance. A book, hisown book, slipped from his knees, and I saw the frontispiece lyingon the floor in a pool of oil; for the stove had gone adrift, andthe saloon was in a wretched state of squalor and litter.

"Off Rottum," I said, and knelt up to find the chart. There wasa look in his eyes that I suppose I ought to have understood, but Ican scarcely blame myself, for the accumulated strain, not only ofthe last three days and nights, but of the whole arduous month ofmy cruise with Davies, was beginning to tell on me, now that safetyand success were at hand. I handed up the chart through thecompanion, and then crept into the reeling fo'c'sle and lay down onthe spare sail-bags, with the thunder and thump of the seas aroundand above me.

I must quote Davies for the event that happened now; for by thetime I had responded to the alarm and climbed up through thefore-hatch, the whole tragedy was over and done with.

"X—— came up the companion," he says, "soon afteryou went down. He held on by the runner, and stared to windward atRottum, as though he knew the place quite well. And then he cametowards us, moving so unsteadily that I gave Clara the tiller, andwent to help him. I tried to make him go down again, but hewouldn't, and came aft.

"'Give me the helm,' he said, half to himself. 'Sea's too badoutside—there's a short cut here.'

"'Thanks,' I said, 'I know this one.' (I don't think I meant tobe sarcastic.) He said nothing, and settled himself on the counterbehind us, safe enough, with his feet against the lee-rail, andthen, to my astonishment, began to talk over my shoulder jollysensibly about the course, pointing out a buoy which is wrong onthe chart (as I knew), and telling me it was wrong, and so on.Well, we came to the bar of the Schild, and had to turn south forthat twisty bit of beating between Rottum and Bosch Flat. Clara wasat the jib-sheet, I had the chart and the tiller (you know howabsent I get like that); there was a bobble of sea, and we both hadheaps to do, and—well—I happened to look round, and hewas gone. He hadn't spoken for a minute or two, but I believe thelast thing I heard him say (I was hardly attending at the time, forwe were in the thick of it) was something about a 'short cut'again. He must have slipped over quietly.... He had an ulster andbig boots on."

We cruised about for a time, but never found him.

That evening, after threading the maze of shoals between theDutch mainland and islands, we anchored off the little hamlet ofOstmahorn, [See Map A] gave the yacht incharge of some astonished fishermen, and thence by road and rail,hurrying still, gained Harlingen, and took passage on a steamer toLondon. From that point our personal history is of no concern tothe outside world, and here, therefore, I bring this narrative toan end.

Epilogue

BY THE EDITOR

[For this chapter [See Map A]]

An interesting document, somewhat damaged by fire, lies on mystudy table.

It is a copy (in cipher) of a confidential memorandum to theGerman Government embodying a scheme for the invasion of England byGermany. It is unsigned, but internal evidence, and the fact thatit was taken by Mr "Carruthers" from the stove of the villa atNorderney, leave no doubt as to its authorship. For many reasons itis out of the question to print the textual translation of it, asdeciphered; but I propose to give an outline of its contents.

Even this must strain discretion to its uttermost limits, andhad I only to consider the instructed few who follow the trend ofprofessional opinion on such subjects, I should leave the foregoingnarrative to speak for itself. But, as was stated in the preface,our primary purpose is to reach everyone; and there may be manywho, in spite of able and authoritative warnings frequently utteredsince these events occurred, are still prone to treat the Germandanger as an idle "bogey", and may be disposed, in this case, toimagine that a baseless romance has been foisted on them.

A few persons (English as well as German) hold that Germany isstrong enough now to meet us single-handed, and throw an army onour shores. The memorandum rejects this view, deferring isolatedaction for at least a decade; and supposing, for present purposes,a coalition of three Powers against Great Britain. And subsequentresearches through the usual channels place it beyond dispute thatthis condition was relied on by the German Government in adoptingthe scheme. They realised that even if, owing to our widelyscattered forces, they gained that temporary command of the NorthSea which would be essential for a successful landing, they wouldinevitably lose it when our standing fleets were concentrated andour reserve ships mobilised. With its sea-communications cut, theprospects of the invading army would be too dubious. I state it inthat mild way, for it seems not to have been held that failure wasabsolutely certain; and rightly, I think, in spite of the dogmas ofthe strategists—for the ease transcends all experience. Noman can calculate the effect on our delicate economic fabric of awell-timed, well-planned blow at the industrial heart of thekingdom, the great northern and midland towns, with their teemingpopulations of peaceful wage-earners. In this instance, however,joint action (the occasion for which is perhaps not difficult toguess) was distinctly contemplated, and Germany's rôle inthe coalition was exclusively that of invader. Her fleet was to bekept intact, and she herself to remain ostensibly neutral until thefirst shock was over, and our own battle-fleets either beaten, or,the much more likely event, so crippled by a hard-won victory as tobe incapable of withstanding compact and unscathed forces. Then,holding the balance of power, she would strike. And the blow? Itwas not till I read this memorandum that I grasped the full meritsof that daring scheme, under which every advantage, moral,material, and geographical, possessed by Germany, is utilised tothe utmost, and every disadvantage of our own turned to accountagainst us.

Two root principles pervade it: perfect organisation; perfectsecrecy. Under the first head come some general considerations. Thewriter (who is intimately conversant with conditions on both sidesof the North Sea) argued that Germany is pre-eminently fitted toundertake an invasion of Great Britain. She has a great army (amere fraction of which would suffice) in a state of highefficiency, but a useless weapon, as against us, unless transportedover seas. She has a peculiar genius for organisation, not only inelaborating minute detail, but in the grasp of a coherent whole.She knows the art of giving a brain to a machine, of transmittingpower to the uttermost cog-wheel, and at the same time ofconcentrating responsibility in a supreme centre. She has a smallnavy, but very effective for its purpose, built, trained, andmanned on methodical principles, for defined ends, and backed by aninexhaustible reserve of men from her maritime conscription. Shestudies and practises co-operation between her army and navy. Herhands are free for offence in home waters, since she has no distantnetwork of coveted colonies and dependencies on which to dissipateher defensive energies. Finally, she is, compared with ourselves,economically independent, having commercial access through her landfrontiers to the whole of Europe. She has little to lose and muchto gain.

The writer pauses here to contrast our own situation, and Isummarise his points. We have a small army, dispersed over thewhole globe, and administered on a gravely defective system. Wehave no settled theory of national defence, and no competentauthority whose business it is to give us one. The matter is stillat the stage of civilian controversy. Co-operation between the armyand navy is not studied and practised; much less do there exist anyplans, worthy of the name, for the repulse of an invasion, or anyreadiness worth considering for the prompt equipment and directionof our home forces to meet a sudden emergency. We have a great and,in many respects, a magnificent navy, but not great enough for theinterests it insures, and with equally defective institutions; notbuilt or manned methodically, having an utterly inadequate reserveof men, all classes of which would be absorbed at the very outset,without a vestige of preparation for the enrolment of volunteers;distracted by the multiplicity of its functions in guarding ourcolossal empire and commerce, and conspicuously lacking a brain,not merely for the smooth control of its own unwieldy mechanism,but for the study of rival aims and systems. We have no North Seanaval base, no North Sea Fleet, and no North Sea policy. Lastly, westand in a highly dangerous economical position.

The writer then deals with the method of invasion, and rejectsthe obvious one at once, that of sending forth a fleet oftransports from one or more of the North Sea ports. He combatsespecially the idea of making Emden (the nearest to our shores) theport of departure. I mention this because, since his own scheme wasadopted, it is instructive to note that Emden had been used (withcaution) as a red herring by the inspired German press, when thesubject was mentioned at all, and industriously dragged across thetrail. His objections to the North Sea ports apply, he remarks, inreality to all schemes of invasion, whether the conditions befavourable or not. One is that secrecy is renderedimpossible—and secrecy is vital. The collection of thetransports would be known in England weeks before the hour was ripefor striking; for all large ports are cosmopolitan and swarm withpotential spies. In Germany's case, moreover, suitable ships arenone too plentiful, and the number required would entail a largededuction from her mercantile marine. The other reason concerns theactual landing. This must take place on an open part of the eastcoast of England. No other objective is even considered. Now thedifficulty of transshipping and landing troops by boats fromtransports anchored in deep water, in a safe, swift, and orderlyfashion, on an open beach, is enormous. The most hastily improvisedresistance might cause a humiliating disaster. Yet the first stageis the most important of all. It is imperative that the invadersshould seize and promptly intrench a pre-arranged line of country,to serve as an initial base. This once done, they can use otherresources; they can bring up transports, land cavalry and heavyguns, pour in stores, and advance. But unless this is done, theyare impotent, be their sea-communications never so secure.

The only logical alternative is then propounded: to despatch anarmy of infantry with the lightest type of field-guns in bigsea-going lighters, towed by powerful but shallow-draught tugs,under escort of a powerful composite squadron of warships; and tofling the flotilla, at high tide, if possible, straight upon theshore.

Such an expedition could be prepared in absolute secrecy, byturning to account the natural features of the German coast. Nogreat port was to be concerned in any way. All that was requiredwas sufficient depth of water to float the lighters and tugs; andthis is supplied by seven insignificant streams, issuing from theFrisian littoral, and already furnished with small harbours andsluice-gates, with one exception, namely, the tidal creek atNorden; for this, it appeared, was one of the chosen seven, andnot, as "Carruthers" supposed, Hilgenriedersiel, which, if youremember, he had no time to visit, and which has, in fact, nostream of any value at all, and no harbour. All of these streamswould have to be improved, deepened, and generally canalised;ostensibly with a commercial end, for purposes of traffic with theislands, which are growing health resorts during a limited summerseason.

The whole expedition would be organised under seven distinctsub-divisions—not too great a number in view of its cumbrouscharacter. Seawards, the whole of the coast is veiled by the fringeof islands and the zone of shoals. Landwards, the loop of railwayround the Frisian peninsula would form the line of communication inrear of the seven streams. Esens was to be the local centre ofadministration when the scheme grew to maturity, but not till then.Every detail for the movement of troops under the seven differentheads was to be arranged for with secrecy and exactitude manymonths in advance, and from headquarters at Berlin. It was notexpected that nothing would leak out, but care was to be taken thatanything that did do so should be attributed to defensivemeasures—a standing feature in German mobilisation being theestablishment of a corps of observation along the Frisian coast; infact, the same machinery was to be used, and its conversion foroffence concealed up to the latest possible moment. The sameprecautions were to be taken in the preliminary work on the spot.There, four men only (it was calculated) need be in full possessionof the secret. One was to represent the Imperial Navy (a postfilled by our friend von Brüning). Another (Böhme) was tosuperintend the six canals and the construction of the lighters.The functions of the third were twofold. He was to organise what Imay call the local labour—that is, the helpers required forembarkation, the crews of the tugs, and, most important of all, theservice of pilots for the navigation of the seven flotillas throughthe corresponding channels to the open sea. He must be a local man,thoroughly acquainted with the coast, of a social standing not muchabove the average of villagers and fishermen, and he must be readywhen the time was ripe with lists of the right men for the rightduties, lists to which the conscription authorities could whenrequired, give instant legal effect. His other function was topolice the coast for spies, and to report anything suspicious tovon Brüning, who would never be far away. On the whole I think thatthey found the grim Grimm a jewel for their purpose.

As fourth personage, the writer designates himself, the promoterof the scheme, the indispensable link between the two nations. Heundertakes to furnish reliable information as to the disposition oftroops in England, as to the hydrography of the coast selected forthe landing, as to the supplies available in its vicinity, and thestrategic points to be seized. He proposes to be guide-in-chief tothe expedition during transit. And in the meantime (when nototherwise employed) he was to reside at Norderney, in close touchwith the other three, and controlling the commercial undertakingswhich were to throw dust in the eyes of the curious. [Memmert, bythe way, is not mentioned in this memorandum.]

He speaks of the place "selected for the landing", and proceedsto consider this question in detail. I cannot follow him in hisreview, deeply interesting though it is, and shall say at once thathe reduces possible landing-places to two, the flats on the Essexcoast between Foulness and Brightlingsea, and the Wash—with adecided preference for the latter. Assuming that the enemy, if theygot wind of an invasion at all, would expect transports to beemployed, he chooses the sort of spot which they would be leastlikely to defend, and which, nevertheless, was suitable to thecharacter of the flotillas, and similar to the region they startedfrom. There is such a spot on the Lincolnshire coast, on the northside of the Wash, [See Map A] known asEast Holland. It is low-lying land, dyked against the sea, andbordered like Frisia with sand-flats which dry off at low water. Itis easy of access from the east, by way of Boston Deeps, adeep-water channel formed by a detached bank, called the Long Sand,lying parallel to the shore for ten miles. This bank makes anatural breakwater against the swell from the east (the onlyquarter to be feared); and the Deeps behind it, where there is anaverage depth of thirty-four feet at low-water, would form anexcellent roadstead for the covering squadron, whose guns wouldcommand the shore within easy range. It is noted in passing thatthis is just the case where German first-class battleships wouldhave an advantage over British ships of the same calibre. Thelatter are of just too heavy a draught to navigate such waterswithout peril, if, indeed, they could enter this roadstead at all,for there is a bar at the mouth of it with only thirty-one feet athigh water, spring tides. The former, built as they were with aview to manœuvring in the North Sea, are just within themargin of safety. East Holland is within easy striking distance ofthe manufacturing districts, a vigorous raid on which is, thewriter urges, the true policy of an invader. He reports positivelythat there exist (in a proper military sense) no preparationswhatever to meet such an attack. East Holland is also the nearestpoint on the British shores to Germany, excepting the coast ofNorfolk; much nearer, indeed, than the Essex flats alluded to, andreached by a simple deep-sea passage, without any dangerous regionto navigate, like the mouth of the Channel and the estuary of theThames from Harwich westwards. The distance is 240 sea-miles, westby south roughly, from Borkum Island, and 280 from Wangeroog. Thetime estimated for transit after the flotillas had been assembledoutside the islands is from thirty to thirty-four hours.

Embarkation is the next topic. This could and must be effectedin one tide. At the six siels there was a mean period of twoand a half hours in every twelve, during which the water was highenough. At Norden a rather longer time was available. But thisshould be amply sufficient if the machinery were in good workingorder and were punctually set in motion. High water occursapproximately at the same time at all seven outlets, the differencebetween the two farthest apart, Carolinensiel and Greetsiel, beingonly half an hour.

Lastly, the special risks attendant on such an expedition aredispassionately weighed. X——, though keenly anxious torecommend his scheme, writes in no blindly sanguine spirit. Thereare no modern precedents for any invasion in the least degreecomparable to that of England by Germany. Any such attempt will bea hazardous experiment. But he argues that the advantages of hismethod outweigh the risks, and that most of the risks themselveswould attach equally to any other method. Whatever skill inprediction was used, bad weather might overtake the expedition.Yes; but if transports were used transhipment into boats forlanding would in bad weather be fraught with the same and a greaterperil. But transports could stand off and wait. Delay is fatal inany case; unswerving promptitude is the essence of such anenterprise. The lighters would be in danger of foundering? Besidethe point; if the end is worth gaining the risks must be faced.Soldiers' lives are sacrificed in tens of thousands onbattlefields. The flotilla would be demoralised during transit bythe assault of a few torpedo-boats? Granted; but the same wouldapply to a fleet of transports, with the added certainty that onelucky shot would send to the bottom ten times the number ofsoldiers, with less hope of rescue. In both cases reliance must beplaced on the efficiency and vigilance of the escort. It isadmitted, however, in a passage which might well make my twoadventurers glow with triumph, that if by any mischance the Britishdiscovered what was afoot in good time, and were able to send overa swarm of light-draught boats, which could elude the Germanwarships and get amongst the flotillas while they were still inprocess of leaving the siels; it is admitted that in that case theexpedition was doomed. But it is held that such an event was not tobe feared. Reckless pluck is abundant in the British Navy, butexpert knowledge of the tides and shoals in these waters is utterlylacking. The British charts are of no value, and there is noevidence (he reports) that the subject has been studied in any wayby the British Admiralty. Let me remark here, that I believe Mr"Davies's" views, as expressed in the earlier chapters, when theywere still among the great estuaries, are all absolutely sound. The"channel theory", though it only bore indirectly on the grand issuebefore them, was true, and should be laid to heart, or I should nothave wasted space on it.

One word more, in conclusion. There is an axiom, much in fashionnow, that there is no fear of an invasion of the British Isles,because if we lose command of the sea, we can be starved—acheaper and surer way of reducing us to submission. It is a loose,valueless axiom, but by sheer repetition it is becoming an articleof faith. It implies that "command of the sea" is a thing to be wonor lost definitely; that we may have it to-day and lose it for everto-morrow. On the contrary, the chances are that in anything likean even struggle the command of the sea will hang in the balancefor an indefinite time. And even against great odds, it wouldprobably be impossible for our enemies so to bar the avenues of ourcommerce, so to blockade the ports of our extensive coast-line, andso to overcome the interest which neutrals will have in supplyingus, as to bring us to our knees in less than two years, duringwhich time we can be recuperating and rebuilding from our uniqueinternal resources, and endeavouring to regain command.

No; the better axiom is that nothing short of a successfulinvasion could finally compel us to make peace. Our hearts arestout, we hope; but facts are facts; and a successful raid, such asthat here sketched, if you will think out its consequences, mustappal the stoutest heart. It was checkmated, but others may beconceived. In any case, we know the way in which they look at thesethings in Germany.

Postscript (March 1903)

It so happens that while this book was in the press a number ofmeasures have been taken by the Government to counteract some ofthe very weaknesses and dangers which are alluded to above. ACommittee of National Defence has been set up, and the welcomegiven to it was a truly extraordinary comment on the apathy andconfusion which it is designed to supplant. A site on the Forth hasbeen selected for a new North Sea naval base—an excellent iftardy decision; for ten years or so must elapse before the existinganchorage becomes in any sense a "base". A North Sea fleet has alsobeen created—another good measure; but it should beremembered that its ships are not modern, or in the least capableof meeting the principal German squadrons under the circ*mstancessupposed above.

Lastly, a Manning Committee has (among other matters) reportedvaguely in favour of a Volunteer Reserve. There is no means ofknowing what this recommendation will lead to; let us hope not tothe fiasco of the last badly conceived experiment. Is it notbecoming patent that the time has come for training all Englishmensystematically either for the sea or for the rifle?

THE END

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