“Surely; I was thinking—” she groped for excuse and could think of nothing better than, “What way do we go?”
“By Basel and Freiburg.”
“What time, if you please, Herr Baron?”
“At eight o’clock the train is.”
“I would like to return now to the hotel, then.”
He complied and, conversing on ordinary topics in English, they reentered the town.
She had no arrangements to make. Wessels was to see to all necessary details. She could pack her traveling bags in a few minutes; and she dared not write to anyone of the matters now upon her mind. She desired to return to the hotel only to be alone; and, as soon as she had parted from Wessels, she shut herself in her room.
Long ago—a period passed in incalculable terms of time—she had determined, locked alone in a room, to undertake proceeding into Germany. Her purpose from the first, and her promise to the soul of Cynthia Gail—the vindication which she had whispered to strengthen herself when she was writing to Cynthia’s parents, and George Byrne, and when she was receiving their letters, trading upon Cynthia’s mother’s friends—was that she was to go into Germany.
It must be at tremendous risk to herself; but she always had recognized that; she had said to Gerry that she accepted certain death—and worse than death—if first she might have her chance to do something. Well, she might have her chance. At any rate, there was nothing to be done but go ahead without futilely calculating who Wessels actually was, what he truly believed about her, what he meant to do. Here was her chance to enter Germany.
An hour later she descended to dinner with Mrs. Folwell, and noticed Wessels dining at his usual table in another part of the room. Ruth informed Mrs. Folwell after dinner that she was starting that evening for Basel; it was then almost train time and, after having her luggage brought down, she went alone to the train.