“Spying at Chatham, the blackguard?” he hissed.
“Nothing about battleships, mines, forts?” he said.
“Nothing about the Ems, Emden, Wilhelmshaven?”
“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.”
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.