'All right, I'll do my best. All you've got to do is to be yourself and tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dollmann played you.'

The next scene: von Bruning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffee and k.u.mmel at a table in a dingy inn-parlour overlooking the harbour and the sea, Davies with a full box of matches on the table before him.

The commander gave us a hearty welcome, and I am bound to say I liked him at once, as Davies had done; but I feared him, too, for he had honest eyes, but abominably clever ones.

I had impressed on Davies to talk and question as freely and naturally as though nothing uncommon had happened since he last saw von Bruning on the deck of the 'Medusa'. He must ask about Dollmann--the mutual friend--at the outset, and, if questioned about that voyage in his company to the Elbe, must lie like a trooper as to the danger he had been in. This was the one clear and essential necessity, where much was difficult. Davies did his duty with precipitation, and blushed when he put his question, in a way that horrified me, till I remembered that his embarra.s.sment was due, and would be ascribed, to another cause.

'Herr Dollmann is away still, I think,' said von Bruning. (So Davies had been right at Brunsb.u.t.tel.) 'Were you thinking of looking him up again?' he added.

'Yes,' said Davies, shortly.

'Well, I'm sure he's away. But his yacht is back, I believe--and Fraulein Dollmann, I suppose.'

'H'm!' said Davies; 'she's a very fine boat that.'

Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who was miserable. I saw a chance, and took it mercilessly.

'We can call on Fraulein Dollmann, at least, Davies,' I said, with a meaning smile at von Bruning.

'H'm!, said Davies; 'will he be back soon, do you think?'

The commander had begun to light a cigar, and took his time in answering. 'Probably,' he said, after some puffing, 'he's never away very long. But you've seen them later than I have. Didn't you sail to the Elbe together the day after I saw you last?'

'Oh, part of the way,' said Davies, with great negligence. 'I haven't seen him since. He got there first; outsailed me.'

'Gave you the slip, in fact?'

'Of course he beat me; I was close-reefed. Besides--'

'Oh, I remember; there was a heavy blow--a devil of a heavy blow. I thought of you that day. How did you manage?'

'Oh, it was a fair wind; it wasn't far, you see.'

'Grosse Gott! In _that_.' He nodded towards the window whence the 'Dulcibella's' taper mast could be seen pointing demurely heavenwards.

'She's a splendid sea-boat,' said Davies, indignantly.

'A thousand pardons!' said von Bruning, laughing.

'Don't shake my faith in her,' I put in. 'I've got to get to England in her.'

'Heaven forbid; I was only thinking that there must have been some sea round the Scharhorn that day; a tame affair, no doubt, Herr Davies?'

'Scharhorn?' said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in the latter sentence. 'Oh, we didn't go that way. We cut through the sands--by the Telte.'

'The Telte! In a north-west gale!' The commander started, ceased to smile, and only stared. (It was genuine surprise; I could swear it.

He had heard nothing of this before.)

'Herr Dollmann knew the way,' said Davies, doggedly. 'He kindly offered to pilot me through, and I wouldn't have gone otherwise.'

There was an awkward little pause.

'He led you well, it seems?' said von Bruning.

'Yes; there's a nasty surf there, though, isn't there? But it saves six miles--and the Scharhorn. Not that I saved distance. I was fool enough to run aground.'

'Ah!' said the other, with interest.

'It didn't matter, because I was well inside then. Those sands are difficult at high water. We've come back that way, you know.'

('And we run aground every day,' I remarked, with resignation.)

'Is that where the 'Medusa' gave you the slip?' asked von Bruning, still studying Davies with a strange look, which I strove anxiously to a.n.a.lyze.

'She wouldn't have noticed,' said Davies. 'It was very thick and squally--and she had got some way ahead. There was no need for her to stop, anyway. I got off all right; the tide was rising still. But, of course, I anch.o.r.ed there for the night.'

'Where?'

'Inside there, under the Hohenhorn,' said Davies, simply.

'Under the _what_?'

'The Hohenhorn.'

'Go on--didn't they wait for you at Cuxhaven?'

'I don't know; I didn't go that way.' The commander looked more and more puzzled.

'Not by the ship ca.n.a.l, I mean. I changed my mind about it, because the next day the wind was easterly. It would have been a dead beat across the sands to Cuxhaven, while it was a fair wind straight out to the Eider River. So I sailed there, and reached the Baltic that way. It was all the same.'

There was another pause.

'Well done, Davies,' I thought. He had told his story well, using no subtlety. I knew it was exactly how he would have told it to anyone else, if he had not had irrefutable proof of foul play.

The commander laughed, suddenly and heartily.

'Another liqueur?' he said. Then, to me: 'Upon my word, your friend amuses me. It's impossible to make him spin a yarn. I expect he had a bad time of it.'

'That's nothing to him,' I said; 'he prefers it. He anch.o.r.ed me the other day behind the Hohenhorn in a gale of wind; said it was safer than a harbour, and more sanitary.'

'I wonder he brought you here last night. It was a fair wind for England; and not very far.'

'There was no pilot to follow, you see.'

'With a charming daughter--no.'

Davies frowned and glared at me. I was merciful and changed the subject.

'Besides,' I said, 'we've left our anchor and chain out there.' And I made confession of my sin.

'Well, as it's buoyed, I should advise you to pick it up as soon as you can,' said von Bruning, carelessly; 'or someone else will.'