Kormoran knew it; the man on the pier, whether he cared or not, knew
it. But none of them knew Davies as I knew him. Would anyone dream
for an instant--?

'Stop a second,' said Davies; 'give me two minutes.' He whipped out
the German chart. 'Where exactly should we go?' ('Exactly!' The word
tickled me hugely.)

'To the depot, of course; it's our only chance.'

'Listen then--there are two routes: the outside one by the open sea,
right round Juist, and doubling south--the simplest, but the longest;
the depot's at the south point of Memmert, and Memmert's nearly two
miles long.' _[See Chart B]_

'How far would that way be?'

'Sixteen miles good. And we should have to row in a breaking swell
most of the way, close to land.'

'Out of the question; it's too public, too, if it clears. The steamer
went that way, and will come back that way. We must go inside over
the sands. Am I dreaming, though? Can you possibly find the way?'

'I shouldn't wonder. But I don't believe you see the hitch. It's the
_time_ and the falling tide. High water was about 8.15: it's now
10.15, and all those sands are drying off. We must cross the See-Gat
and strike that boomed channel, the Memmert Balje; strike it, freeze
on to it--can't cut off an inch--and pass that "watershed" you see
there before it's too late. It's an infernally bad one, I can see.