Leaving Böhme to study dates, postmarks, and contents to his heart’s content, and unobserved, I turned to sympathise with my fair neighbour, who complained that her head was going round; and no wonder. But at this juncture, and very much to my surprise, Davies struck in.
“_I_ should like to go to Memmert,” he said.
“You?” said von Brüning. “Now I’m surprised at that.”
“But you won’t be staying here either, Davies,” I objected.
“Yes, I shall,” said Davies. “Why, I told you I should. If you leave me in the lurch like this I must have time to look round.”
“You needn’t pretend that you cannot sail alone,” said von Brüning.
“It’s much more fun with two; I think I shall wire for another friend. Meanwhile, I should like to see Memmert.”
“That’s only an excuse, I’m afraid,” said I.
“I want to shoot ducks too,” pursued Davies, reddening. “I always have wanted to; and you promised to help in that, Commander.”
“You can’t get out of it now,” I laughed.
“Certainly not,” said he, unmoved; “but, honestly, I should advise Herr Davies, if he is ever going to get home this season, to make the best of this fine weather.”
“It’s too fine,” said Davies; “I prefer wind. If I cannot get a friend I think I shall stop cruising, leave the yacht here, and come back for her next year.
There was some mute telegraphy between the allies.
“You can leave her in my charge,” said Dollmann, “and start with your friend to-morrow.”
“Thanks; but there is no hurry,” said Davies, growing redder than ever. “I like Norderney—and we might have another sail in your dinghy, Fräulein,” he blurted out.
“Thank you,” she said, in that low dry voice I had heard yesterday; “but I think I shall not be sailing again—it is getting too cold.”
“Oh, no!” said Davies, “it’s splendid.” But she had turned to von Brüning, and took no notice.
“Well, send me a report about Memmert, Davies,” I laughed, with the idea of drawing attention from his rebuff. But Davies, having once delivered his soul, seemed to have lost his shyness, and only gazed at his neighbour with the placid, dogged expression that I knew so well. That was the end of those delicate topics; and conviviality grew apace.
I am not indifferent at any time to good wine and good cheer, nor was it for lack of pressing that I drank as sparingly as I was able, and pretended to a greater elation than I felt. Nor certainly was it from any fine scruples as to the character of the gentleman whose hospitality we were receiving—scruples which I knew affected Davies, who ate little and drank nothing. In any case he was adamant in such matters, and I verily believe would at any time have preferred our own little paraffin-flavoured messes to the best dinner in the world. It was a very wholesome caution that warned me not to abuse the finest brain tonic ever invented by the wit of man. I had finessed Memmert, as one finesses a low card when holding a higher; but I had too much respect for our adversaries to trade on any fancied security we had won thereby. They had allowed me to win the trick, but I credited them with a better knowledge of my hand than they chose to show. On the other hand I hugged the axiom that in all conflicts it is just as fatal to underrate the difficulties of your enemy as to overrate your own. Their chief one—and it multiplied a thousandfold the excitement of the contest—was, I felt sure, the fear of striking in error; of using a sledge-hammer to break a nut. In breaking it they risked publicity, and publicity, I felt convinced, was death to their secret. So, even supposing they had detected the finesse, and guessed that we had in fact got wind of imperial designs; yet, even so, I counted on immunity so long as they thought we were on the wrong scent, with Memmert, and Memmert alone, as the source of our suspicions.
