“What shall I do with the stuff?” Brainard inquired.
“Ge-get it out of the country. Take it to—to Ber-Ber-Ber—”
“Bermuda?” Brainard suggested.
“Berlin!” the sick man corrected with a frown. As if to impress his messenger with the seriousness of his work, he added, “If you don’t get away, they’ll—kill you.”
“Oh!” Brainard exclaimed, impressed.
The blue eyes examined the young man steadily, as if they would test his metal. Then, satisfied, the man murmured:
“Quick—must—sign—quick! Now!” he concluded, as his face began to twitch.
Brainard handed him a pen, and held his right arm to steady him while he scrawled his name—“H. Krutzmacht.” The sick man traced the letters slowly, patiently, persisting until he had dashed a heavy line across the t’s and another beneath the name; then he dropped the pen and closed his eyes.
When another moment of control came to him, he whispered uneasily:
“Witness? Must have witness.”