Then we dined and over our meal consulted the map.

“By the map,” I said, “Bellevue should be about fifty miles from here.  My idea is that we should walk only at night and lie up during the day, as a room is out of the question for me without any papers.  I think we should keep away from the Rhine, don’t you?  As otherwise we shall pass through Wesel, which is a fortress, and, consequently, devilish unhealthy for both of us.”

Francis nodded with his mouth full.

“At present we can count on about twelve hours of darkness,” I continued, “so, leaving a margin for the slight detour we shall make, for rests and for losing the way, I think we ought to be able to reach Castle Bellevue on the third night from this.  If the weather holds up, it won’t be too bad, but if it rains, it will be hellish!  Now, have you any suggestions?”

My brother acquiesced, as, indeed, he had in everything I had proposed since we met.  Poor fellow, he had had a roughish time:  he seemed glad to have the direction of affairs taken out of his hands for a bit.

At half-past seven that evening, our packs on our backs, we stood on the outskirts of the town where the road branches off to Crefeld.  In the pocket of the overcoat I had filched from Haase’s I found an automatic pistol, fully loaded (most of our customers at the beer-cellar went armed).

“You’ve got the document, Francis,” I said.  “You’d better have this, too!” and I passed him the gun.

Francis waved it aside.

“You keep it,” he said grimly, “it may serve you instead of a passport.”

So I slipped the weapon back into my pocket.

A cold drop of rain fell upon my face.

“Oh, hell!” I cried, “it’s beginning to rain!”

And thus we set out upon our journey.

* * * * *

It was a nightmare tramp.  The rain never ceased.  By day we lay in icy misery, chilled to the bone in our sopping clothes, in some dank ditch or wet undergrowth, with aching bones and blistered feet, fearing detection, but fearing, even more, the coming of night and the resumption of our march.  Yet we stuck to our programme like Spartans, and about eight o’clock on the third evening, hobbling painfully along the road that runs from Cleves to Calcar, we were rewarded by the sight of a long massive building, with turrets at the corners, standing back from the highway behind a tall brick wall.

“Bellevue!” I said to Francis, with pointing finger.

We left the road and climbing a wooden palisade, struck out across the fields with the idea of getting into the park from the back.  We passed some black and silent farm buildings, went through a gate and into a paddock, on the further side of which ran the wall surrounding the place.  Somewhere beyond the wall a fire was blazing.  We could see the leaping light of the flames and drifting smoke.  At the same moment we heard voices, loud voices disputing in German.