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Page 6
"But, see here, Richard Allerton," I said, "Francis would never spell
'Achilles' with one 'l' ... now, would he?"
"By Jove!" said Dicky, looking at the paper again, "nobody would but a
very uneducated person. I know nothing about German, but tell me, is
that the hand of an educated German? Is it Francis' handwriting?"
"Certainly, it is an educated hand," I replied, "but I'm dashed if I can
say whether it is Francis' German handwriting: it can scarcely be
because, as I have already remarked, he spells 'Achilles' with one 'l.'"
Then the fog came down over us again. We sat helplessly and gazed at the
fateful paper.
"There's only one thing for it, Dicky," I said finally, "I'll take the
blooming thing back to London with me and hand it over to the
Intelligence. After all, Francis may have a code with them. Possibly
they will see light where we grope in darkness."
"Desmond," said Dicky, giving me his hand, "that's the most sensible
suggestion you've made yet. Go home and good luck to you. But promise me
you'll come back here and tell me if that piece of paper brings the
news that dear old Francis is alive."
So I left Dicky but I did not go home. I was not destined to see my home
for many a weary week.
CHAPTER III
A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
A volley of invective from the box of the cab--bad language in Dutch is
fearfully effective--aroused me from my musings. The cab, a small,
uncomfortable box with a musty smell, stopped with a jerk that flung me
forward. From the outer darkness furious altercation resounded above the
plashing of the rain. I peered through the streaming glass of the
windows but could distinguish nothing save the yellow blur of a lamp.
Then a vehicle of some kind seemed to move away in front of us, for I
heard the grating of wheels against the kerb, and my cab drew up to the
pavement.
On alighting, I found myself in a narrow, dark street with high houses
on either side. A grimy lamp with the word "H�tel" in half-obliterated
characters painted on it hung above my head, announcing that I had
arrived at my destination. As I paid off the cabman another cab passed.
It was apparently the one with which my Jehu had had words, for he
turned round and shouted abuse into the night.
My cabman departed, leaving me with my bag on the pavement at my feet
gazing at a narrow dirty door, the upper half of which was filled in
with frosted glass. I was at last awake to the fact that I, an
Englishman, was going to spend the night in a German hotel to which I
had been specially recommended by a German porter on the understanding
that I was a German. I knew that, according to the Dutch neutrality
regulations, my passport would have to be handed in for inspection by
the police and that therefore I could not pass myself off as a German.
"Bah!" I said to give myself courage, "this is a free country, a neutral
country. They may be offensive, they may overcharge you, in a Hun hotel,
but they can't eat you. Besides, any bed in a night like this!" and I
pushed open the door.
Within, the hotel proved to be rather better than its uninviting
exterior promised. There was a small vestibule with a little glass cage
of an office on one side and beyond it an old-fashioned flight of
stairs, with a glass knob on the post at the foot, winding to the upper
stories.
At the sound of my footsteps on the mosaic flooring, a waiter emerged
from a little cubby-hole under the stairs. He had a blue apron girt
about his waist, but otherwise he wore the short coat and the dicky and
white tie of the Continental hotel waiter. His hands were grimy with
black marks and so was his apron. He had apparently been cleaning
boots.
He was a big, fat, blonde man with narrow, cruel little eyes. His hair
was cut so short that his head appeared to be shaven. He advanced
quickly towards me and asked me in German in a truculent voice what I
wanted.
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