"I thought I would try and see what I could do, sir," said Dickson max.
He was in a black suit. I fear it was his Sunday-best. He wore no collar and his face and hands were covered with burnt cork—a grimy, sooty apparition the young imp looked, but, nevertheless, one couldn't have seen him a yard away.
"You've done very well," I said. "Stick to it. The Doctor isn't such a marshman as I am, and if you come up to him like that—well, you won't have a difficult task. You know where I and my brother will be?"
"Yes, sir," he whispered—"in the gun-pit at the head of Garstrike."
"Right you are. Now out along as quickly as possible and bring us news by midnight if you can."
"I am going to lie in the rhododendrons in the Doctor's garden," he said. "He's sure to come out by his private door, and I'll follow him to Heligoland if necessary."
I gave him a pat on the back, and as I looked round he had already melted noiselessly into the dark and I was alone.
In the inn I found my brother. The kitchen was full of labourers drinking their last pint before closing hour at ten. In the private bar old Pugmire was babbling over his gin, but in the sitting-room beyond, with curtains drawn, Bernard was all ready for the enterprise, dressed just as I was.
"Well?" he asked.
"It's all serene. I've met Dickson and he is watching the Doctor now. In about three-quarters of an hour the inn will be closed and all the men gone home. Then we can set out."