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'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 Brüning.

'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 Brüning, still studying Davies with a strange look, which I strove anxiously to analyze.

'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 anchored there for the night.'

'Where?'

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

'Under the _what_?'

'The Hohenhörn.'

'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 canal, 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 anchored me the other day behind the Hohenhörn 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 Brüning, carelessly; 'or someone else will.'

'Yes, by Jove! Carruthers,' said Davies, eagerly, 'we must get out on this next tide.'

'Oh, there's no hurry,' I said, partly from policy, partly because the ease of the shore was on me. To sit on a chair upright is something of a luxury, however good the cause in which you have crouched like a monkey over a table at the level of your knees, with a reeking oil-stove at your ear.

'They're honest enough about here, aren't they?' I added. While the words were on my lips I remembered the midnight visitor at Wangeroog, and guessed that von Brüning was leading up to a test. Grimm (if he was the visitor) would have told him of his narrow escape from detection, and reticence on our part would show we suspected something. I could have kicked myself, but it was not too late. I took the bull by the horns, and, before the commander could answer, added:

'By Jove! Davies, I forgot about that fellow at Wangeroog. The anchor might be stolen, as he says.'

Davies looked blank, but von Brüning had turned to me.

'We never dreamed there would be thieves among these islands,'