Time passes. And presently, just as he is going, I suggest that it would be as well for me to know what time the Dresden sails.
This detail either he never knew or has forgotten. And there is something about it, about the nature of stated times, as about all things conventional and mechanical and precise, that peculiarly exasperates him.
He waves both hands in a fury of nescience and cries, "Ask me another!"
By a sort of mutual consent we assume that the Dresden will sail with Dr. Beavis at ten o'clock. After all, it is a very likely hour.
More time passes. Finally we go into the street that runs along the Digue. And there we find Dr. Beavis sitting in a motor-car. We approach him. I thank him for his kindness in giving me transport. I say I'm sure his ship will be crowded with his own people, but that I don't in the least mind standing in the stoke-hole, if he doesn't mind taking me over.
He looks at me with a dreamy benevolence mixed with amazement. He would take me over with pleasure if he knew how he was to get away himself.
"But," I say to the Commandant, "I thought you had arranged with Dr. Beavis to take me on the Dresden."
The Commandant says nothing. And Dr. Beavis smiles again. A smile of melancholy knowledge.
"The Dresden," he says, "sailed two hours ago."
So it is decided that I am to proceed with the Ambulance to Dunkirk, thence by train to Boulogne, thence to Folkestone. It sounds so simple that I wonder why we didn't think of it before.