“Heaven knows, we haven’t,” I said. “But I don’t see how we can. We must see how things go. It’s past twelve, and it won’t do to be late.”
“Well, I leave it to you.”
“All right, I’ll do my best. All you’ve got to do is to be yourself and tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dollmann played you.”
The next scene: von Brüning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffee and Kümmel at a table in a dingy inn-parlour overlooking the harbour and the sea, Davies with a full box of matches on the table before him. The Commander gave us a hearty welcome, and I am bound to say I liked him at once, as Davies had done; but I feared him, too, for he had honest eyes, but abominably clever ones.
I had impressed on Davies to talk and question as freely and naturally as though nothing uncommon had happened since he last saw von Brüning on the deck of the Medusa. He must ask about Dollmann—the mutual friend—at the outset, and, if questioned about that voyage in his company to the Elbe, must lie like a trooper as to the danger he had been in. This was the one clear and essential necessity, where much was difficult. Davies did his duty with precipitation, and blushed when he put his question, in a way that horrified me, till I remembered that his embarrassment was due, and would be ascribed, to another cause.
“Herr Dollmann is away still, I think,” said von Brüning. (So Davies had been right at Brunsbüttel.) “Were you thinking of looking him up again?” he added.
“Yes,” said Davies, shortly.
“Well, I’m sure he’s away. But his yacht is back, I believe—and Fräulein Dollmann, I suppose.”
“H’m!” said Davies; “she’s a very fine boat that.”
Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who was miserable. I saw a chance, and took it mercilessly.