Rutile needed no second glance to identify the vessel indicated. She was Ouro Preto’s yacht, which he had often seen. Nevertheless, he loafed out upon the docks for a nearer view.
Work was being knocked off for the day as he strolled to the end of the stone pier and stared across the dirty water to where the yacht was lying. He noticed that she had steam up, and guessed that his informant was right, and that she intended to leave very soon indeed. As he watched he saw a steam launch leave her side and come puffing toward the shore.
Dusk was falling fast, and at last he turned away, feeling that he had accomplished all that he had come down to do.
He knew that it was no use to try to stop the yacht’s sailing; the very openness with which the thing had been carried on was proof of the connivance of the authorities. His best, and indeed his only course was to hurry back to Berlin and notify both the United States and Brazilian governments.
He was about to step off the pier when he saw two men coming toward him. One of them he recognized as the man with whom he had been talking not long before. As they drew near this man jerked his head in his direction and spoke to the other.
“That’s him,” he said. Rutile heard the words distinctly.
The second man, who was clearly an officer of some sort, changed his course slightly, and stopped just in front of the American.
“I understand you are looking for a berth as wireless operator,” he said gruffly, in German.
Rutile concealed his astonishment as well as he could. “I am,” he answered, promptly, in the same tongue.
“Good.” The officer turned to the man who accompanied him, and handed him a coin. “All right!” he said. “Be off.”