Before either could utter another word, the lee door of the charthouse opened and Captain Horst stood framed in the entrance. He glared across at them, his face livid with a sudden anger, his eyes blazing. Then, with a scarcely articulate but vehemently muttered oath, he sprang across the little room, snatched the chart from the table, thrust it into the drawer, locked it up and put the key in his pocket. He turned and scowled at them in a silence which they were too awed to break. His eyes, fiercely blue, seemed to search into their very souls. Theirs dropped under the intolerable scrutiny. He uttered an exclamation of angry contempt and, without further speech, walked out of the charthouse.
The two young men looked at each other.
“That is the second time this morning!” said Jensen, at last, glancing toward the door now once more closed on them.
“What is?” asked Lyngstrand, curiously.
“That he has cursed in German!—Lyngstrand! I am beginning to see into this!”
“But it’s impossible!” exclaimed Lyngstrand, his mind leaping to his friend’s deduction and then rejecting it. “He is a Swede, like ourselves!”
“He is a German!” said Jensen, positively.
“But he speaks Swedish without a trace of accent!”
“And other languages also, I expect—French and English, as well—better than you or I speak them, I have no doubt. Swedish would much facilitate service in the Baltic—and your German naval officer was linguistically well equipped for any possible campaign.”
“German naval officer!” echoed Lyngstrand, incredulously.