'Did you hear anything about this in September?' I asked.

'Not a word. I didn't go to Juist. I would have, probably, if I
hadn't met Dollmann.'

What in the world did it mean? How did it affect our plans?

'Look at his boots if we pass him,' was all Davies had to suggest.

The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle in it, running north by
east, roughly, and edged by a dyke of withies for the first quarter
of a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the north-east, and we saw
that exit was impossible in such a wind.

So back to the village, a paltry, bleak little place. We passed
friend Grimm on the bridge; a dark, clean-shaved, saturnine man,
wearing _shoes._ Approaching the inn:

'We haven't settled quite enough, have we?' said Davies. 'What about
our future plans?'

'Heaven knows, we haven't,' I said. 'But I don't see how we can. We
must see how things go. It's past twelve, and it won't do to be
late.'

'Well, I leave it to you.'

'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.'