"Then you do not know where they are buried?"
"No, but I shall know if--I am allowed to go into Gibraltar. Yes, there is someone there. I must put myself into relations with him. Then I shall know, and so shall you."
So here was some part of the truth, at all events. Peiffer wanted to get into Gibraltar. His disappearance from Lisbon, his reappearance in corduroys, his quarrelsome progress down the east coast, his letter to Slingsby, and his story, were all just the items of an elaborate piece of machinery invented to open the gates of that fortress to him. Slingsby's only movement was to take his cigarette-case lazily from his pocket.
"But why in the world," he asked, "can't you get your man in Gibraltar to come out here and see you?"
Peiffer shook his head.
"He would not come. He has been told to expect me, and I shall give him certain tokens from which he can guess my trustworthiness. If I write to him, 'Come to me,' he will say 'This is a trap.'"
Slingsby raised another objection:
"But I shouldn't think that you can expect the authorities to give you a safe conduct into Gibraltar upon your story."
Peiffer swept that argument aside with a contemptuous wave of his hand.
"I have a Danish passport. See!" and he took the document from his breast pocket. It was complete, to his photograph.