"Any boats to hire?"
The man looked Rowland over from top to toe, his fish-knife suspended in the air.
"You don't think I can pay because I am a workman. I am off for a holiday, my friend. See." And Rowland exhibited a hundred mark note with an air of great pride. The fisherman became more interested at once. But shook his head.
"There is a new law about renting boats to strangers. You must have a pass from the officer commanding at Lindau."
Rowland laughed.
"Strangers! That's pretty good. And me working between Weissenburg and Kempten for ten years."
The fisherman rose and took up his bucket of fish.
"I'm sorry. Your money is as good as anyone else's, but it can't be done."
Rowland looked around him quickly. There was no one in sight upon the shore and only the slender figure of Zoya Rochal slowly approaching him along the jetty. Alongside the raft to which the man had descended to wash his fish was the sail-boat he had used. The breeze was fresh and from the South. The boom swung noisily to and fro. Rowland's mind was working rapidly.
Zoya joined him. "Courage," he whispered. "Go down."