"I doubt it," rejoined the ober-leutnant. "These English are not thorough like us. They would hesitate before condemning to death a German naval officer; rather they would make much of him. An account of his adventures would appear in the British newspapers.... Nevertheless, don't think, Kuhlberg, that I want to desert you indefinitely. It is only for a few hours. Boat ready?" he inquired, dropping his bantering tone.
With muffled oars the boat approached the shore, von Loringhoven handling the yoke-lines with the air of a man who is well acquainted with his surroundings. Less than four years previously he had spent a month in North Cornwall, ostensibly to indulge in "surf-bathing." There was hardly a cove betwixt Hartland Point and St. Ives that he had not explored, aiding his trained memory by means of photographic and business-like sketches.
"Lay on your oars!" ordered the ober-leutnant, as the boat glided under the overhanging cliffs of a bold headland.
Von Loringhoven produced a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars from his coat pocket, and focussed them upon a ledge of rocks that formed a breakwater, partly natural, partly artificial, to a tidal harbour.
"H'm," he muttered. "I thought so. They have patrols out. No matter, I must take the Fisherman's Stairs. Give way gently, men."
Protected by an outlying ledge the cove for which the boat was making was uninfluenced by the sullen ground swell. Noiselessly and unseen von Loringhoven stepped ashore, gave a few whispered instructions to the coxswain, and sent the boat back to the lurking submarine.
The ober-leutnant waited until the faint plash of the oars failed to reach his ears, then treading softly he made his way over the rough slippery causeway along the base of the cliffs. At intervals he stopped to listen intently, but only the low rumble of the surf and the occasional call of a belated sea-bird broke the silence.
It required a considerable amount of nerve to ascend or descend Fishermen's Stairs, even in broad daylight. The darkness, doubtless, modified much of the forbidding appearance of the precipitous way, but on the other hand it seemed to hide many of the otherwise visible dangers.
Von Loringhoven counted the steps as he climbed. He knew the exact number, unless, since his last visit, a landslide had altered the natural features of the place. Once he muttered a curse as his feet slipped, yet, hardly deigning to make use of the rusty iron chain that served as a rough handrail, he gained the summit of the cliffs.
Perfectly aware of the regulations that no unauthorised person must use the cliff-path between sunset and sunrise, the ober-leutnant proceeded cautiously until he gained a narrow lane leading towards the little town. Here, throwing off his secretive manner, he started off at a brisk walk until he reached a row of semi-detached villas on fairly lofty ground overlooking the harbour.