had formerly
been in his chest-protector and put them into the breast-pocket of his
jacket, and then very carefully deposited the copies he had made in the
place of the originals. He had no very clear plan in his mind in doing
this, except that he hated the idea of altogether parting with the
secret. For a long time he meditated profoundly--nodding. Then he turned
out his light and went to bed again and schemed himself to sleep.

6

The hochgeboren Graf von Winterfeld was also a light sleeper that night,
but then he was one of these people who sleep little and play chess
problems in their heads to while away the time--and that night he had a
particularly difficult problem to solve.

He came in upon Bert while he was still in bed in the glow of the
sunlight reflected from the North Sea below, consuming the rolls and
coffee a soldier had brought him. He had a portfolio under his arm,
and in the clear, early morning light his dingy grey hair and heavy,
silver-rimmed spectacles made him look almost benevolent. He spoke
English fluently, but with a strong German flavour. He was particularly
bad with his "b's," and his "th's" softened towards weak "z'ds." He
called Bert explosively, "Pooterage." He began with some indistinct
civilities, bowed, took a folding-table and chair from behind the door,
put the former between himself and Bert, sat down on the latter, coughed
drily, and opened his portfolio. Then he put his elbows on the table,
pinched his lower lip with his two fore-fingers, and regarded Bert
disconcertingly with magnified eyes. "You came to us, Herr Pooterage,
against your will," he said at last.

"'Ow d'you make that out?" asked Bert, after a pause of astonishment.

"I chuge by ze maps in your car. They were all English. And your
provisions. They were all picnic. Also your cords were entangled. You
haf' been tugging--but no good. You could not manage ze balloon, and
anuzzer power than yours prought you to us. Is it not so?"

Bert thought.

"Also--where is ze laty?"

"'Ere!--what lady?"

"You started with a laty. That is evident. You shtarted for an afternoon
excursion--a picnic. A man of your temperament--he would take a laty.
She was not wiz you in your balloon when you came down at Dornhof. No!
Only her chacket! It is your affair. Still, I am curious."

Bert reflected. "'Ow d'you know that?"

"I chuge by ze nature of your farious provisions. I cannot account, Mr.
Pooterage, for ze laty, what you haf