"About midnight. Why do you look at me like that?"
"The man swears," said Hausmann, slowly, "that he was struck down soon after you entered the cabin."
Pachmann jumped in his chair.
"He says that!" he gasped. "But that is impossible—he is lying!"
"Perhaps you would wish to interrogate him?" Hausmann suggested.
Pachmann nodded mutely, and the Captain touched a bell.
"Send Schroeder here," he said to the man who answered.
The man saluted and closed the door again, and the Captain and his visitor sat looking at each other in silence. Both were disturbed; but Pachmann was by far the more dismayed of the two. To his companion, it was merely a fracture of the discipline of his ship; but to Pachmann it was the end of the world! Try as he might to maintain his self-composure, he could not stop the nervous trembling of his hands; and from time to time he moistened his lips and swallowed with great effort. He felt himself stricken to the heart; he scarcely dared permit himself to think what it meant for him, for his King, for Germany, if this man spoke the truth.
And then the door opened and the man himself entered—a typical German sailor, with bronzed countenance, and short curly brown beard, and honest blue eyes—not too intelligent, but faithful, strong and dependable. Yes, and honest—one could see that. He was barefooted and clad in a suit of duck, which had been white originally but was now much soiled. About his head was a bandage. He saluted and stood at attention, while Pachmann looked him over.
"Tell us what occurred last night," the Captain ordered. "Think carefully and omit nothing."