forehead and tickling my spine; not from fear or excitement, but from
pure ignominy. For beyond all doubt I was present at the meeting of a
_bona-fide_ salvage company. It was pay-day, and the directors
appeared to be taking stock of work done; that was all.

Over the door was an old engraving of a two-decker under full sail;
pinned on the wall a chart and the plan of a ship. Relics of the
wrecked frigate abounded. On a shelf above the stove was a small
pyramid of encrusted cannon-balls, and supported on nails at odd
places on the walls were corroded old pistols, and what I took to be
the remains of a sextant. In a corner of the floor sat a hoary little
carronade, carriage and all. None of these things affected me so much
as a pile of lumber on the floor, not firewood but unmistakable
wreck-wood, black as bog-oak, still caked in places with the mud of
ages. Nor was it the mere sight of this lumber that dumbfounded me.
It was the fact that a fragment of it, a balk of curved timber
garnished with some massive bolts, lay on the table, and was
evidently an object of earnest interest. The diver had turned and was
arguing with gestures over it; von Brüning and Grimm were pressing
another view. The diver shook his head frequently, finally shrugged
his shoulders, made a salutation, and left the room. Their movements
had kept me ducking my head pretty frequently, but I now grew almost
reckless as to whether I was seen or not. All the weaknesses of my
theory crowded on me--the arguments Davies had used at Bensersiel;
Fräulein Dollmann's thoughtless talk; the ease (comparatively) with
which I had reached this spot, not a barrier to cross or a lock to
force; the publicity of their passage to Memmert by Dollmann, his
friend, and Grimm; and now this glimpse of business-like routine. In
a few moments I sank from depth to depth of scepticism. Where were my
mines, torpedoes, and submarine boats, and where my imperial