And yet there were three of them; and one was old, and one was
plump, and one was lean and dark; and their house chimed in with
Scudder's notes; and half a mile off was lying a steam yacht with at
least one German officer. I thought of Karolides lying dead and all
Europe trembling on the edge of earthquake, and the men I had
left behind me in London who were waiting anxiously for the
events of the next hours. There was no doubt that hell was afoot
somewhere. The Black Stone had won, and if it survived this June
night would bank its winnings.
There seemed only one thing to do--go forward as if I had no
doubts, and if I was going to make a fool of myself to do it
handsomely. Never in my life have I faced a job with greater
disinclination. I would rather in my then mind have walked into a
den of anarchists, each with his Browning handy, or faced a charging
lion with a popgun, than enter that happy home of three
cheerful Englishmen and tell them that their game was up. How
they would laugh at me!
But suddenly I remembered a thing I once heard in Rhodesia
from old Peter Pienaar. I have quoted Peter already in this narrative.
He was the best scout I ever knew, and before he had turned
respectable he had been pretty often on the windy side of the law,
when he had been wanted badly by the authorities. Peter once
discussed with me the question of disguises, and he had a theory
which struck me at the time.
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