“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.
“Three of them behind the hood,” said Davies: “what are we to do?”
“Follow,” I answered, and essayed a feeble stroke, but the blade scuttered over the surface.
“Let’s wait about for a bit,” said Davies. “We’re late anyhow. If they go to the yacht they’ll think we’re ashore.”
“Our shore clothes—lying about.”
“Are you up to talking?”
“No; but we must. The least suspicion’ll do for us now.”