The next scene: von Brüning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffee and
Kümmel 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 Brüning 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 embarrassment was due, and
would be ascribed, to another cause.

'Herr Dollmann is away still, I think,' said von Brüning. (So Davies
had been right at Brunsbüttel.) '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
Fräulein Dollmann, I suppose.'

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