At last we reached our goal and marched through a fine old carved archway into a courtyard, and thence into a draughty hall.
“You must see the Sektionschef,” said our guide. I looked round to see if we were all there, and noticed that Hussin had disappeared. It did not matter, for he was not on the passports.
We followed as we were directed through an open door. There was a man standing with his back towards us looking at a wall map, a very big man with a neck that bulged over his collar. I would have known that neck among a million. At the sight of it I made a half-turn to bolt back. It was too late, for the door had closed behind us and there were two armed sentries beside it.
The man slewed round and looked into my eyes. I had a despairing hope that I might bluff it out, for I was in different clothes and had shaved my beard. But you cannot spend ten minutes in a death-grapple without your adversary getting to know you.
He went very pale, then recollected himself and twisted his features into the old grin.
“So,” he said, “the little Dutchmen! We meet after many days.”
It was no good lying or saying anything. I shut my teeth and waited.
“And you, Herr Blenkiron? I never liked the look of you. You babbled too much, like all your damned Americans.”
“I guess your personal dislikes haven’t got anything to do with the matter,” said Blenkiron, calmly. “If you’re the boss here, I’ll thank you to cast your eye over these passports, for we can’t stand waiting for ever.”
This fairly angered him. “I’ll teach you manners,” he cried, and took a step forward to reach for Blenkiron’s shoulder—the game he had twice played with me.