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Two or three times I had to stand back and ease my cramped neck, and on each occasion I looked at my watch, for I was listening against time, just as we had rowed against time. We were going to be asked to supper, and must be back aboard the yacht in time to receive the invitation. The fog still brooded heavily and the light, always bad, was growing worse. How would _they_ get back? How had they come from Juist? Could we forestall them? Questions of time, tide, distance--just the odious sort of sums I was unfit to cope with--were distracting my attention when it should have been wholly elsewhere. 4.20--4.25--now it was past 4.30 when Davies said the bank would cover. I should have to make for the beacon; but it was fatally near that steamboat path, etc., and I still at intervals heard voices from there. It must have been about 4.35 when there was another shifting of chairs within. Then someone rose, collected papers, and went out; someone else, _without_ rising (therefore Grimm), followed him.

There was silence in the room for a minute, and after that, for the first time, I heard some plain colloquial German, with no accompaniment of scratching or rustling. 'I must wait for this,' I thought, and waited.

'He insists on coming,' said Böhme.

'Ach!' (an ejaculation of surprise and protest from von Brüning).

'I said the _25th_.'

'Why?'

'The tide serves well. The night-train, of course. Tell Grimm to be ready--' (An inaudible question from von Brüning.) 'No, any weather.' A laugh from von Brüning and some words I could not catch.

'Only one, with half a load.'

'. . .meet?'

'At the station.'

'So--how's the fog?'

This appeared to be really the end. Both men rose and steps came towards the window. I leapt aside as I heard it thrown up, and covered by the noise backed into safety. Von Brüning called 'Grimm!' and that, and the open window, decided me that my line of advance was now too dangerous to retreat by. The only alternative was to make a circuit round the bigger of the two buildings--and an interminable circuit it seemed--and all the while I knew my compass-course 'south-east' was growing nugatory. I passed a padlocked door, two corners, and faced the void of fog. Out came the compass, and I steadied myself for the sum. 'South-east before--I'm farther to the eastward now--east will about do'; and off I went, with an error of four whole points, over tussocks and deep sand. The beach seemed much farther off than I had thought, and I began to get alarmed, puzzled over the compass several times, and finally realized that I had lost my way. I had the sense not to make matters worse by trying to find it again, and, as the lesser of two evils, blew my whistle, softly at first, then louder. The bray of a foghorn sounded right _behind_ me. I whistled again and then ran for my life, the horn sounding at intervals. In three or four minutes I was on the beach and in the dinghy.

23 A Change of Tactics

WE pushed off without a word, and paddled out of sight of the beach. A voice was approaching, hailing us. 'Hail back,' whispered Davies; 'pretend we're a galliot.'

'Ho-a,' I shouted. 'where am I?'

'Off Memmert,' came back. 'Where are you bound?'

'Delfzyl,' whispered Davies.

'Delf-zyl,' I bawled.

A sentence ending with 'anchor' was returned.

'The flood's tearing east,' whispered Davies; 'sit still.'

We heard no more, and, after a few minutes' drifting 'What luck?' said Davies.

'One or two clues, and an invitation to supper.'

The clues I left till later; the invitation was the thing, and I explained its urgency.

'How will _they_ get back?' said Davies; 'if the fog lasts the steamer's sure to be late.'

'We can count for nothing,' I answered. 'There was some little steamboat off the depot, and the fog may lift. Which is our quickest way?'

'At this tide, a bee-line to Norderney by compass; we shall have water over all the banks.'

He had all his preparations made, the lamp lit in advance, the compass in position, and