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The Man with the Clubfoot by Valentine Williams
page 107 of 271 (39%)
procure identity papers that would give me a status of some kind.

But Francis? Baffled as I was by that obscure jingle of German,
something seemed to tell me that it was a message from my brother. It
was dated from Berlin, and I felt that the solution of the riddle, if
riddle it were, must be found here.

I had reached Unter den Linden. I entered a café and ordered a glass of
beer. The place was a blaze of light and dense with a blue cloud of
tobacco smoke. A noisy band was crashing out popular tunes and there was
a loud buzz of conversation rising from every table. It was all very
cheerful and the noise and the bustle did me good after the strain of
the night.

I drew from my pocket the slip of paper I had had from Dicky and fell to
scanning it again. I had not been twelve hours in Germany, but already I
was conscious that, for anyone acting a part, let anything go wrong with
his identity papers and he could never leave the country. If he were
lucky, he might lie doggo; but there was no other course.

Supposing, then, that this had happened to Francis (as, indeed, Red Tabs
had hinted to me was the case) what course would he adopt? He would try
and smuggle out a message announcing his plight. Yes, I think that is
what I myself would do in similar circumstances.

Well, I would accept this as a message from Francis. Now to study it
once more.

_O Eichenholz! O Eichenholz!
Wie leer sind deine Blätter.
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