CHAPTER XXIII.

A Change of Tactics

We pushed off without a word, and paddled out of sight of the beach. A

voice was approaching, hailing us. “Hail back,” whispered Davies;

“pretend we’re a galliot.”

“Ho-a,” I shouted, “where am I?”

“Off Memmert,” came back. “Where are you bound?”

“Delfzyl,” whispered Davies.

“Delf-zyl,” I bawled.

A sentence ending with “anchor” was returned.

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

We heard no more, and, after a few minutes’ drifting, “What luck?” said

Davies.

“One or two clues, and an invitation to supper.”

The clues I left till later; the invitation was the thing, and I

explained its urgency.

“How will _they_ get back?” said Davies; “if the fog lasts the

steamer’s sure to be late.”

“We can count for nothing,” I answered. “There was some little

steamboat off the depôt, and the fog may lift. Which is our quickest

way?”

“At this tide, a bee-line to Norderney by compass; we shall have water

over all the banks.”

He had all his preparations made, the lamp lit in advance, the compass

in position, and we started at once; he at the bow-oar where he had

better control over the boat’s nose; lamp and compass on the floor

between us. Twilight thickened into darkness—a choking, pasty

darkness—and still we sped unfalteringly over that trackless waste,

sitting and swinging in our little pool of stifled orange light. To

drown fatigue and suspense I conned over my clues, and tried to carve

into my memory every fugitive word I had overheard.

“What are there seven of round here?” I called back to Davies once

(thinking of A to G). “Sorry,” I added, for no answer came.

“I see a star,” was my next word, after a long interval. “Now it’s

gone. There it is again! Right aft!”

“That’s Borkum light,” said Davies, presently; “the fog’s lifting.” A

keen wind from the west struck our faces, and as swiftly as it had come

the fog rolled away from us, in one mighty mass, stripping clean and

pure the starry dome of heaven, still bright with the western

after-glow, and beginning to redden in the east to the rising moon.

Norderney light was flashing ahead, and Davies could take his tired

eyes from the pool of light.

“Damn!” was all he uttered in the way of gratitude for this mercy, and

I felt very much the same; for in a fog Davies in a dinghy was a match

for a steamer; in a clear he lost his handicap.

It was a quarter to seven. “An hour’ll do it, if we buck up,” he

pronounced, after taking a rough bearing with the two lights. He

pointed out a star to me, which we were to keep exactly astern, and

again I applied to their labour my aching back and smarting palms.

“What did you say about seven of something?” said Davies.

“What are there seven of hereabouts?”

“Islands, of course,” said Davies. “Is that the clue?”

“Maybe.”

Then followed the most singular of all our confabulations. Two memories

are better than one, and the sooner I carved the cipher into his memory

as well as mine the better record we should have. So, with rigid

economy of breath, I snapped out all my story, and answered his

breathless questions. It saved me from being mesmerised by the star,

and both of us from the consciousness of over-fatigue.

“Spying at Chatham, the blackguard?” he hissed.

“What do you make of it?” I asked.

“Nothing about battleships, mines, forts?” he said.

“No.”

“Nothing about the Ems, Emden, Wilhelmshaven?”

“No.”

“Nothing about transports?”

“No.”

“I believe—I was right—after all—something to do—with the

channels—behind islands.”

And so that outworn creed took a new lease of life; though for my part

the words that clashed with it were those that had sunk the deepest.

“Esens,” I protested; “that town behind Bensersiel.”

“Wassertiefe, Lotsen, Schleppboote,” spluttered Davies.

“Kilometre—Eisenbahn,” from me, and so on.

I should earn the just execration of the reader if I continued to

report such a dialogue. Suffice to say that we realised very soon that

the substance of the plot was still a riddle. On the other hand, there

was fresh scent, abundance of it; and the question was already taking

shape—were we to follow it up or revert to last night’s decision and

strike with what weapons we had? It was a pressing question, too, the

last of many—was there to be no end to the emergencies of this crowded

day?—pressing for reasons I could not define, while convinced that we

must be ready with an answer by supper-time to-night.

Meantime, we were nearing Norderney; the See Gat was crossed, and with

the last of the flood tide fair beneath us, and the red light on the

west pier burning ahead, we began insensibly to relax our efforts. But

I dared not rest, for I was at that point of exhaustion when mechanical

movement was my only hope.

“Light astern,” I said, thickly. “Two—white and red.”

“Steamer,” said Davies; “going south though.”

“Three now.”

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

“Turned east,” said Davies. “Buck up—steamer from Juist. No, by Jove!

too small. What is it?”

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

overhauled us.

“Easy,” said Davies, “I seem to know those lights—the _Blitz_’s

launch—don’t let’s be caught rowing like madmen in a muck sweat. Paddle

inshore a bit.” He was right, and, as in a dream, I saw hurrying and

palpitating up the same little pinnace that had towed us out of

Bensersiel.

“We’re done for now,” I remember thinking, for the guilt of the runaway

was strong in me; and an old remark of von Brüning’s about “police” was

in my ears. But she was level with and past us before I could sink far

into despair.

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

“Follow,” I answered, and essayed a feeble stroke, but the blade

scuttered over the surface.

“Let’s 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 slowly on,

while I sat on a slack heap in the stern and devoted my last resources

of will to the emancipation of the spirit from the tired flesh.

In ten minutes or so we were rounding the pier, and there was the

yacht’s top-mast against the sky. I saw, too, that the launch was

alongside of her, and told Davies so. Then I lit a cigarette, and made

a lamentable effort to whistle. Davies followed suit, and emitted a

strange melody which I took to be “Home, Sweet Home,” but he has not

the slightest ear for music.

“Why, they’re on board, I believe,” said I; “the cabin’s lighted. Ahoy

there!” I shouted as we came up. “Who’s that?”

“Good evening, sir,” said a sailor, who was fending off the yacht with

a boathook. “It’s Commander von Brüning’s launch. I think the gentlemen

want to see you.”

Before we could answer, an exclamation of: “Why, here they are!” came

from the deck of the _Dulcibella_, and the dim form of von Brüning

himself emerged from the companionway. There was something of a scuffle

down below, which the Commander nearly succeeded in drowning by the

breeziness of his greeting. Meanwhile, the ladder creaked under fresh

weight, and Dollmann appeared.

“Is that you, Herr Davies?” he said.

“Hullo! Herr Dollmann,” said Davies; “how are you?”

I must explain that we had floated up between the yacht and the launch,

whose sailors had passed her a little aside in order to give us room.

Her starboard side-light was just behind and above us, pouring its

green rays obliquely over the deck of the _Dulcibella_, while we and

the dinghy were in deep shadow between. The most studied calculation

could not have secured us more favourable conditions for a moment which

I had always dreaded—the meeting of Davies and Dollmann. The former,

having shortened his sculls, just sat where he was, half turned towards

the yacht and looking up at his enemy. No lineament of his own face

could have been visible to the latter, while those pitiless green

rays—you know their ravaging effect on the human physiognomy—struck

full on Dollmann’s face. It was my first fair view of it at close

quarters, and, secure in my background of gloom, I feasted with a

luxury of superstitious abhorrence on the livid smiling mask that for a

few moments stooped peering down towards Davies. One of the caprices of

the crude light was to obliterate, or at any rate so penetrate, beard

and moustache, as to reveal in outline lips and chin, the features in

which defects of character are most surely betrayed, especially when

your victim smiles. Accuse me, if you will, of stooping to melodramatic

embroidery; object that my own prejudiced fancy contributed to the

result; but I can, nevertheless, never efface the impression of

malignant perfidy and base passion, exaggerated to caricature, that I

received in those few instants. Another caprice of the light was to

identify the man with the portrait of him when younger and

clean-shaven, in the frontispiece of his own book; and another still,

the most repulsively whimsical of all, was to call forth a strong

resemblance to the sweet young girl who had been with us yesterday.

Enough! I shall never offend again in this way. In reality I am much

more inclined to laugh than shudder over this meeting; for meanwhile

the third of our self-invited guests had with stertorous puffing risen

to the stage, for all the world like a demon out of a trapdoor,

specially when he entered the zone of that unearthly light. And there

they stood in a row, like delinquents at judgement, while we, the true

culprits, had only passively to accept explanations. Of course these

were plausible enough. Dollmann having seen the yacht in port that

morning had called on his return from Memmert to ask us to supper.

Finding no one aboard, and concluding we were ashore, he had meant to

leave a note for Davies in the cabin. His friend, Herr Böhme, _“the

distinguished engineer,”_ was anxious to see over the little vessel

that had come so far, and he knew that Davies would not mind the

intrusion. Not at all, said Davies; would not they stop and have

drinks? No, but would we come to supper at Dollmann’s villa? With

pleasure, said Davies, but we had to change first. Up to this point we

had been masters of the situation; but here von Brüning, who alone of

the three appeared to be entirely at his ease, made the _retour

offensif_.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Oh, rowing about since the fog cleared,” said Davies.

I suppose he thought that evasion would pass muster, but as he spoke, I

noticed to my horror that a stray beam of light was playing on the

bunch of white cotton-waste that adorned one of the rowlocks: for we

had forgotten to remove these tell-tale appendages. So I added:

“After ducks again”; and, lifting one of the guns, let the light flash

on its barrel. To my own ears my voice sounded husky and distant.

“Always ducks,” laughed von Brüning. “No luck, I suppose?”

“No,” said Davies; “but it ought to be a good time after sunset——”

“What, with a rising tide and the banks covered?”

“We saw some,” said Davies, sullenly.

“I tell you what, my zealous young sportsmen, you’re rash to leave your

boat at anchor here after dark without a light. I came aboard to find

your lamp and set it.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Davies; “we took it with us.”

“To see to shoot by?”

We laughed uncomfortably, and Davies compassed a wonderful German

phrase to the effect that “it might come in useful”. Happily the matter

went no farther, for the position was a strained one at the best, and

would not bear lengthening. The launch went alongside, and the invaders

evacuated British soil, looking, for all von Brüning’s flippant

nonchalance, a rather crestfallen party. So much so, that, acute as was

my anxiety, I took courage to whisper to Davies, while the transhipment

of Herr Böhme was proceeding: “Ask Dollmann to stay while we dress.”

“Why?” he whispered.

“Go on.”

“I say, Herr Dollmann,” said Davies, “won’t you stay on board with us

while we dress? There’s a lot to tell you, and—and we can follow on

with you when we’re ready.”

Dollmann had not yet stepped into the launch. “With pleasure,” he said;

but there followed an ominous silence, broken by von Brüning.

“Oh, come along, Dollmann, and let them alone,” he said brusquely.

“You’ll be horribly in the way down there, and we shall never get any

supper if you keep them yarning.”

“And it’s now a quarter-past eight o’clock,” grumbled Herr Böhme from

his corner behind the hood. Dollmann submitted, and excused himself,

and the launch steamed away.

“I think I twig,” said Davies, as he helped, almost hoisted, me aboard.

“Rather risky though—eh?”

“I knew they’d object—only wanted to make sure.”

The cabin was just as we had left it, our shore clothes lying in

disorder on the bunks, a locker or two half open.

“Well, I wonder what they did down here,” said Davies.

For my part I went straight to the bookshelf.

“Does anything strike you about this?” I asked, kneeling on the sofa.

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

before.”

“That doesn’t matter. Anything else?”

“By Jove!—where’s Dollmann’s book?”

“It’s here all right, but not where it should be.” I had been reading

it, you remember, overnight, and in the morning had replaced it in full

view among the other books. I now found it behind them, in a wrenched

attitude, which showed that someone who had no time to spare had pushed

it roughly inwards.

“What do you make of that?” said Davies.

He produced long drinks, and we allowed ourselves ten minutes of

absolute rest, stretched at full length on the sofas.

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

“How?”

“First, when they were talking about you and me. He was on his defence,

and in a deuce of a funk, too. Böhme was pressing him hard. Again, at

the end, when he left the room followed by Grimm, who I’m certain was

sent to watch him. It was while he was away that the other two arranged

that rendezvous for the night of the 25th. And again just now, when you

asked him to stay. I believe it’s working out as I thought it would.

Von Brüning, and through him Böhme (who is the “engineer from Bremen”),

know the story of that short cut and suspect that it was an attempt on

your life. Dollmann daren’t confess to that, because, morality apart,

it could only have been prompted by extreme necessity—that is, by the

knowledge that you were really dangerous, and not merely an inquisitive

stranger. Now _we_ know his motive; but they don’t yet. The position of

that book proves it.”

“He shoved it in?”

“To prevent them seeing it. There’s no earthly reason why _they_ should

have hidden it.”

“Then we’re getting on,” said Davies. “That shows they know his real

name, or why should he shove the book in? But they don’t know he wrote

a book, and that I have a copy.”

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

“And what does he think about me—and you?”

“That’s the point. Ten to one he’s in tortures of doubt, and would give

a fortune to have five minutes’ talk alone with you to see how the land

lies and get your version of the short cut incident. But they won’t let

him. They want to watch him in our company and us in his; you see it’s

an interesting reunion for you and him.”

“Well, let’s get into these beastly clothes for it,” groaned Davis. “I

shall have a plunge overboard.”

Something drastic was required, and I followed his example, curious as

the hour was for bathing.

“I believe I know what happened just now,” said I, as we plied rough

towels in the warmth below. “They steamed up and found nobody on board.

‘I’ll leave a note,’ says Dollmann. ‘No independent communications,’

say they (or think they), ‘we’ll come too, and take the chance of

inspecting this hornets’ nest.’ Down they go, and Dollmann, who knows

what to look for first, sees that damning bit of evidence staring him

in the face. They look casually at the shelf among other things—examine

the logbook, say—and he manages to push his own book out of sight. But

he couldn’t replace it when the interruption came. The action would

have attracted attention _then,_ and Böhme made him leave the cabin in

advance, you know.”

“This is all very well,” said Davies, pausing in his toilet, “but do

they guess how we’ve spent the day? By Jove, Carruthers, that chart

with the square cut out; there it is on the rack!”

“We must chance it, and bluff for all we’re worth,” I said. The fact

was that Davies could not be brought to realise that he had done

anything very remarkable that day; yet those fourteen sinuous miles

traversed blindfold, to say nothing of the return journey and my own

exploits, made up an achievement audacious and improbable enough to

out-distance suspicion. Nevertheless, von Brüning’s banter had been

disquieting, and if an inkling of our expedition had crossed his mind

or theirs, there were ways of testing us which it would require all our

effrontery to defeat.

“What are you looking for?” said Davies. I was at the collar and stud

stage, but had broken off to study the time-table which we had bought

that morning.

“Somebody insists on coming by the night train to somewhere, on the

25th,” I reminded him. “Böhme, von Brüning, and Grimm are to meet the

Somebody.”

“Where?”

“At a railway station! I don’t know where. They seemed to take it for

granted. But it must be somewhere on the sea, because Böhme said, ‘the

tide serves.’”

“It may be anywhere from Emden to Hamburg.” _[See Map B]_

“No, there’s a limit; it’s probably somewhere near. Grimm was to come,

and he’s at Memmert.”

“Here’s the map.... Emden and Norddeich are the only coast stations

till you get to Wilhelmshaven—no, to Carolinensiel; but those are a

long way east.”

“And Emden’s a long way south. Say Norddeich then; but according to

this there’s no train there after 6.15 p.m.; that’s hardly ‘night’.

When’s high tide on the 25th?”

“Let’s see—8.30 here to-night—Norddeich’ll be the same. Somewhere

between 10.30 and 11 on the 25th.”

“There’s a train at Emden at 9.22 from Leer and the south, and one at

10.50 from the north.”

“Are you counting on another fog?” said Davies, mockingly.

“No; but I want to know what our plans are.”

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

“No, we can’t; we should come to grief.” This was no barren truism, for

I was ready with a plan of my own, though reluctant to broach it to

Davies.

Meanwhile, ready or not, we had to start. The cabin we left as it was,

changing nothing and hiding nothing; the safest course to take, we

thought, in spite of the risk of further search. But, as usual, I

transferred my diary to my breast-pocket, and made sure that the two

official letters from England were safe in a compartment of it.

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

“It’s a case of ‘as you were’,” said Davies. “To-day’s trip was a

chance we shall never get again. We must go back to last night’s

decision—tell them that we’re going to stay on here for a bit.

Shooting, I suppose we shall have to say.”

“And courting?” I suggested.

“Well, they know all about that. And then we must watch for a chance of

tackling Dollmann privately. Not to-night, because we want time to

consider those clues of yours.”

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

We were at the ladder, and what a languid stiffness oppressed me I did

not know till I touched its freezing rungs, each one of which seared my

sore palms like red-hot iron.

The overdue steamer was just arriving as we set foot on the quay. “And

yet, by Jove! why not to-night?” pursued Davies, beginning to stride up

the pier at a pace I could not imitate.

“Steady on,” I protested; “and, look here, I disagree altogether. I

believe to-day has doubled our chances, but unless we alter our tactics

it has doubled our risks. We’ve involved ourselves in too tangled a

web. I don’t like this inspection, and I fear that foxy old Böhme who

prompted it. The mere fact of their inviting us shows that we stand

badly; for it runs in the teeth of Brüning’s warning at Bensersiel, and

smells uncommonly like arrest. There’s a rift between Dollmann and the

others, but it’s a ticklish matter to drive our wedge in; as to

_to-night,_ hopeless; they’re on the watch, and won’t give us a chance.

And after all, do we know enough? We don’t know why he fled from

England and turned German. It may have been an extraditable crime, but

it may not. Supposing he defies us? There’s the girl, you see—she ties

our hands, and if he once gets wind of that, and trades on our

weakness, the game’s up.”

“What are you driving at?”

“We want to detach him from Germany, but he’ll probably go to any

lengths rather than abandon his position here. His attempt on you is

the measure of his interest in it. Now, is to-day to be wasted?” We

were passing through the public gardens, and I dropped on to a seat for

a moment’s rest, crackling dead leaves under me. Davies remained

standing, and pecked at the gravel with his toe.

“We have got two valuable clues,” I went on; “that rendezvous on the

25th is one, and the name Esens is the other. We may consider them to

eternity; I vote we act on them.”

“How?” said Davies. “We’re under a searchlight here; and if we’re

caught——”

“Your plan—ugh!—it’s as risky as mine, and more so,” I replied, rising

with a jerk, for a spasm of cramp took me. “We must separate,” I added,

as we walked on. “We want, at one stroke, to prove to them that we’re

harmless, and to get a fresh start. I go back to London.”

“To London!” said Davies. We were passing under an arc lamp, and, for

the dismay his face showed, I might have said Kamchatka.

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

“Yes, I forgot. And me?”

“You can’t get on without me, so you lay up the yacht here—taking your

time.”

“While you?”

“After making inquiries about Dollmann’s past I double back as somebody

else, and follow up the clues.”

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

“I can just do it in time for the 25th.”

“When you say ‘making inquiries’,” he continued, looking straight

before him, “I hope you don’t mean setting other people on his track?”

“He’s fair game!” I could not help saying; for there were moments when

I chafed under this scrupulous fidelity to our self-denying ordinance.

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

“Oh, I’ll keep the secret,” I rejoined.

“Let’s stick together,” he broke out. “I shall make a muck of it

without you. And how are we to communicate—meet?”

“Somehow—that can wait. I know it’s a leap in the dark, but there’s

safety in darkness.”

“Carruthers! what are we talking about? If they have the ghost of a

notion where we have been to-day, you give us away by packing off to

London. They’ll think we know their secret and are clearing out to make

use of it. _That_ means arrest, if you like!”

“Pessimist! Haven’t I written proof of good faith in my pocket—official

letters of recall, received to-day? It’s one deception the less, you

see; for those letters _may_ have been opened; skilfully done it’s

impossible to detect. When in doubt, tell the truth!”

“It’s a rum thing how often it pays in this spying business,” said

Davies thoughtfully.

We had been tramping through deserted streets under the glare of

electricity, I with my leaden shuffle, he with the purposeful forward

stoop and swinging arms that always marked his gait ashore.

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

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

We turned slowly down, running over a few last points where prior

agreement was essential. As we stood at the very gate of the villa:

“Don’t commit yourself to dates,” I said; “say nothing that will

prevent you from being here at least a week hence with the yacht still

afloat.” And my final word, as we waited at the door for the bell to be

answered, was: “Don’t mind what _I_ say. If things look queer we may

have to lighten the ship.”

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

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

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