“What the connection is between your crowd and these Germans I can’t exactly make out.  Of course if you’re right in your idea about the chap with the scar spying on you in London it’s perfectly obvious they’re working together in some way.  At the same time I’m quite sure that Latimer knows nothing about it.  The reason he came down to look at the hut on Friday was because a report about it had been sent to him by one of his men—­he has two fellows working under him—­and he thought it might have something to do with the Germans.  He described the way you had caught him quite frankly, and told me how he’d had to invent a lie about the Surveyor in order to get out of it.

“Exactly what he means to do next I don’t know.  He has got some plan on, and I’ve a notion he wants me to help him—­at least he sounded me pretty plainly last night as to whether I’d be game to lend him a hand.  I need hardly tell you I jumped at the idea.  It seems to me our only possible chance of finding out anything.  I am to see him or hear from him tomorrow, and directly I know what’s in the wind I’ll either write to you or come and look you up.

“Joyce will tell you all about George and McMurtrie.  If they aren’t both up to some kind of particularly dirty mischief I’ll eat my whole wardrobe.  We must talk it over thoroughly when we meet.

“I’m longing to see you again, and hear all about the work and what’s been going on down there.

“So long, old son,

“Yours as ever,

“TOMMY.”

I was just making out the last words, when Joyce emerged from the cabin, carrying some tea on a tray.

“Here you are, Neil,” she said.  “I have cut you only two slices of bread and butter, because I don’t want you to spoil your supper.  There’s cold pheasant and peas and new potatoes.”

I pulled out the bottle of champagne from my pocket.  “If they’re as new as this wine,” I observed, “they ought to be delicious.”

Joyce accepted my contribution, and after reading the label, placed it carefully on the floor of the well.  “Sarcon et fils,” she repeated.  “I always thought they made vinegar.”

“Perhaps they do,” I replied.  “We shall know when we drink it.”

Joyce laughed, and sitting down beside me, poured me out a cup of tea.  “You’ve read Tommy’s letter,” she said.  “What do you think about it?”

I took a long drink.  “From the little I’ve seen of Mr. Bruce Latimer,” I said, “I should put him down as being one of the most accomplished liars in England.”  I paused.  “At the same time,” I added, “I think he’s a fine fellow.  I like his face.”

Joyce nodded her head.  “But you don’t believe his story?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “It may be true,” I said.  “Tommy seems to think so anyhow.  If it is, things are a bit simpler than I imagined—­that’s all.”

“And if it isn’t?” said Joyce.

“Ah!” said I, “if it isn’t—­”