I advanced to the table and picked up the topmost paper. It was a little typewritten blue slip with the lettering in italics, and in a corner a curious, involved stamp in red ink. On it I read:
“Die Wildvögel müssen heimkehren.”
At the same moment I heard steps and the door opened on the far side, I stepped back towards the stove, and fingered the pistol in my pocket.
A man entered, a man with a scholar’s stoop, an unkempt beard, and large sleepy dark eyes. At the sight of me he pulled up and his whole body grew taut. It was the Portuguese Jew, whose back I had last seen at the smithy door in Skye, and who by the mercy of God had never seen my face.
I stopped fingering my pistol, for I had an inspiration. Before he could utter a word I got in first.
“Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde,” I said.
His face broke into a pleasant smile, and he replied:
“Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch.”
“Ach,” he said in German, holding out his hand, “you have come this way, when we thought you would go by Modane. I welcome you, for I know your exploits. You are Conradi, who did so nobly in Italy?”
I bowed. “Yes, I am Conradi,” I said.