“That’s my affair. Will you take me to Memmert?”
“What do you say, gentlemen?” Böhme nodded. “I think we owe some reparation. Under promise of absolute secrecy, then?”
“Of course, now that you trust me. But you’ll show me everything—honour bright—wreck, depôt, and all?”
“Everything; if you don’t object to a diver’s dress.”
“Victory!” I cried, in triumph. “We’ve won our point, Davies. And now, gentlemen, I don’t mind saying that as far as I am concerned the joke’s at an end; and, in spite of your kind offer, I must start for England to-morrow under the good Herr Böhme’s wing. And in case my elastic conscience troubles you (for I see you think me a weather-cock) here are the letters received this morning, establishing my identity as a humble but respectable clerk in the British Civil Service, summoned away from his holiday by a tyrannical superior.” (I pulled out my letters and tossed them to Dollmann.) “Ah, you don’t read English easily, perhaps? I dare say Herr Böhme does.”
Leaving Böhme to study dates, postmarks, and contents to his heart’s content, and unobserved, I turned to sympathise with my fair neighbour, who complained that her head was going round; and no wonder. But at this juncture, and very much to my surprise, Davies struck in.
“I should like to go to Memmert,” he said.
“You?” said von Brüning. “Now I’m surprised at that.”
“But you won’t be staying here either, Davies,” I objected.
“Yes, I shall,” said Davies. “Why, I told you I should. If you leave me in the lurch like this I must have time to look round.”