Davies found it and spread it on the table between us, first pushing
back the cloth and the breakfast things to one end, where they lay in
a slovenly litter. This was one of the only two occasions on which I
ever saw him postpone the rite of washing up, and it spoke volumes
for the urgency of the matter in hand.

'Here it is,' said Davies _[See Map A]_ and I looked with a new and
strange interest at the long string of slender islands, the parallel
line of coast, and the confusion of shoals, banks, and channels which
lay between. 'Here's Norderney, you see. By the way, there's a
harbour there at the west end of the island, the only real harbour on
the whole line of islands, Dutch or German, except at Terschelling.
There's quite a big town there, too, a watering place, where Germans
go for sea-bathing in the summer. Well, the Medusa, that was her
name, was lying in the Riff Gat roadstead, flying the German ensign,
and I anchored for the night pretty near her. I meant to visit her
owner later on, but I very nearly changed my mind, as I always feel
rather a fool on smart yachts, and my German isn't very good.
However, I thought I might as well; so, after dinner, when it was
dark, I sculled over in the dinghy, hailed a sailor on deck, said who
I was, and asked if I could see the owner. The sailor was a surly
sort of chap, and there was a good long delay while I waited on deck,
feeling more and more uncomfortable. Presently a steward came up and
showed me down the companion and into the saloon, which, after
_this_, looked--well, horribly gorgeous--you know what I mean, plush
lounges, silk cushions, and that sort of thing. Dinner seemed to be
just over, and wine and fruit were on the table. Herr Dollmann was
there at his coffee. I introduced myself somehow--'

'Stop a moment,' I said; 'what was he like?'