“Here’s the map.... Emden and Norddeich are the only coast stations till you get to Wilhelmshaven—no, to Carolinensiel; but those are a long way east.”
“And Emden’s a long way south. Say Norddeich then; but according to this there’s no train there after 6.15 p.m.; that’s hardly ‘night’. When’s high tide on the 25th?”
“Let’s see—8.30 here to-night—Norddeich’ll be the same. Somewhere between 10.30 and 11 on the 25th.”
“There’s a train at Emden at 9.22 from Leer and the south, and one at 10.50 from the north.”
“Are you counting on another fog?” said Davies, mockingly.
“No; but I want to know what our plans are.”
“Can’t we wait till this cursed inspection’s over?”
“No, we can’t; we should come to grief.” This was no barren truism, for I was ready with a plan of my own, though reluctant to broach it to Davies.
Meanwhile, ready or not, we had to start. The cabin we left as it was, changing nothing and hiding nothing; the safest course to take, we thought, in spite of the risk of further search. But, as usual, I transferred my diary to my breast-pocket, and made sure that the two official letters from England were safe in a compartment of it.
“What do you propose?” I asked, when we were in the dinghy again.