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 			<p>That two days later I should be found pacing the deck of the Flushing steamer with a ticket for Hamburg in my pocket may seem a strange result, yet not so strange if you have divined my state of mind. You will guess, at any rate, that I was armed with the conviction that I was doing an act of obscure penance, rumours of which might call attention to my lot and perhaps awaken remorse in the right quarter, while it left me free to enjoy myself unobtrusively in the remote event of enjoyment being possible.</p>
 			<p>The fact was that, at breakfast on the morning after the arrival of the letter, I had still found that inexplicable lightening which I mentioned before, and strong enough to warrant a revival of the pros and cons. An important pro which I had not thought of before was that after all it was a good-natured piece of unselfishness to join Davies; for he had spoken of the want of a pal, and seemed honestly to be in need of me. I almost clutched at this consideration. It was an admirable excuse, when I reached my office that day, for a resigned study of the Continental Bradshaw, and an order to Carter to unroll a great creaking wall-map of Germany and find me Flensburg. The latter labour I might have saved him, but it was good for Carter to have something to do; and his patient ignorance was amusing. With most of the map and what it suggested I was tolerably familiar, for I had not wasted my year in Germany, whatever I had done or not done since. Its people, history, progress, and future had interested me intensely, and I had still friends in Dresden and Berlin. Flensburg recalled the Danish war of ’64, and by the time Carter’s researches had ended in success I had forgotten the task set him, and was wondering whether the prospect of seeing something of that lovely region of Schleswig-Holstein,<a href="endnotes.xhtml#note-1" id="noteref-1" epub:type="noteref">1</a> as I knew from hearsay that it was, was at all to be set against such an uncomfortable way of seeing it, with the season so late, the company so unattractive, and all the other drawbacks which I counted and treasured as proofs of my desperate condition, if I <em>were</em> to go. It needed little to decide me, and I think K⁠⸺’s arrival from Switzerland, offensively sunburnt, was the finishing touch. His greeting was “Hullo, Carruthers, you here? Thought you had got away long ago. Lucky devil, though, to be going now, just in time for the best driving and the early pheasants. The heat’s been shocking out there. Carter, bring me a Bradshaw”⁠—(an extraordinary book, Bradshaw, turned to from habit, even when least wanted, as men fondle guns and rods in the close season).</p>
-			<p>By lunchtime the weight of indecision had been removed, and I found myself entrusting Carter with a telegram to Davies, <abbr class="postal">PO</abbr>, Flensburg. “Thanks; expect me 9:34 <abbr class="time">p.m.</abbr> 26th”; which produced, three hours later, a reply: “Delighted; please bring a <abbr>No.</abbr> 3 Rippingille stove”⁠—a perplexing and ominous direction, which somehow chilled me in spite of its subject matter.</p>
+			<p>By lunchtime the weight of indecision had been removed, and I found myself entrusting Carter with a telegram to Davies, <abbr epub:type="z3998:place">PO</abbr>, Flensburg. “Thanks; expect me 9:34 <abbr class="time">p.m.</abbr> 26th”; which produced, three hours later, a reply: “Delighted; please bring a <abbr>No.</abbr> 3 Rippingille stove”⁠—a perplexing and ominous direction, which somehow chilled me in spite of its subject matter.</p>
 			<p>Indeed, my resolution was continually faltering. It faltered when I turned out my gun in the evening and thought of the grouse it ought to have accounted for. It faltered again when I contemplated the miscellaneous list of commissions, sown broadcast through Davies’s letter, to fulfil which seemed to make me a willing tool where my chosen role was that of an embittered exile, or at least a condescending ally. However, I faced the commissions manfully, after leaving the office.</p>
 			<p>At Lancaster’s I inquired for his gun, was received coolly, and had to pay a heavy bill, which it seemed to have incurred, before it was handed over. Having ordered the gun and <abbr>No.</abbr> 4’s to be sent to my chambers, I bought the Raven mixture with that peculiar sense of injury which the prospect of smuggling in another’s behalf always entails; and wondered where in the world Carey and Neilson’s was, a firm which Davies spoke of as though it were as well known as the Bank of England or the Stores, instead of specializing in “rigging-screws,” whatever they might be. They sounded important, though, and it would be only polite to unearth them. I connected them with the “few repairs,” and awoke new misgivings. At the Stores I asked for a <abbr>No.</abbr> 3 Rippingille stove, and was confronted with a formidable and hideous piece of ironmongery, which burned petroleum in two capacious tanks, horribly prophetic of a smell of warm oil. I paid for this miserably, convinced of its grim efficiency, but speculating as to the domestic conditions which caused it to be sent for as an afterthought by telegram. I also asked about rigging-screws in the yachting department, but learnt that they were not kept in stock; that Carey and Neilson’s would certainly have them, and that their shop was in the Minories, in the far east, meaning a journey nearly as long as to Flensburg, and twice as tiresome. They would be shut by the time I got there, so after this exhausting round of duty I went home in a cab, omitted dressing for dinner (an epoch in itself), ordered a chop up from the basement kitchen, and spent the rest of the evening packing and writing, with the methodical gloom of a man setting his affairs in order for the last time.</p>
 			<p>The last of those airless nights passed. The astonished Withers saw me breakfasting at eight, and at 9:30 I was vacantly examining rigging-screws with what wits were left me after a sulphurous ride in the underground to Aldgate. I laid great stress on the ⅜’s, and the galvanism, and took them on trust, ignorant as to their functions. For the eleven-shilling oilskins I was referred to a villainous den in a back street, which the shopman said they always recommended, and where a dirty and bejewelled Hebrew chaffered with me (beginning at 18<abbr>s.</abbr>) over two reeking orange slabs distantly resembling moieties of the human figure. Their odour made me close prematurely for 14<abbr>s.</abbr>, and I hurried back (for I was due there at 11) to my office with my two disreputable brown-paper parcels, one of which made itself so noticeable in the close official air that Carter attentively asked if I would like to have it sent to my chambers, and K⁠⸺ was inquisitive to bluntness about it and my movements. But I did not care to enlighten K⁠⸺, whose comments I knew would be provokingly envious or wounding to my pride in some way.</p>

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 			<p>I gave way, and told my story briefly. He listened in silence, drumming on the table with a book which he held.</p>
 			<p>“It’s not goodbye,” he said. “But I don’t wonder; look here!” and he held out to me a small volume, whose appearance was quite familiar to me, if its contents were less so. As I noted in an early chapter, Davies’s library, excluding tide-tables, “pilots,” <abbr>etc.</abbr>, was limited to two classes of books, those on naval warfare, and those on his own hobby, cruising in small yachts. He had six or seven of the latter, including Knight’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Falcon in the Baltic</i>, Cowper’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Sailing Tours</i>, Macmullen’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Down Channel</i>, and other less known stories of adventurous travel. I had scarcely done more than look into some of them at off-moments, for our life had left no leisure for reading. This particular volume was⁠—no, I had better not describe it too fully; but I will say that it was old and unpretentious, bound in cheap cloth of a rather antiquated style, with a title which showed it to be a guide for yachtsmen to a certain British estuary. A white label partly scratched away bore the legend “3<i>d</i>.” I had glanced at it once or twice with no special interest.</p>
 			<p>“Well?” I said, turning over some yellow pages.</p>
-			<p>“Dollmann!” cried Davies. “Dollmann wrote it.” I turned to the title-page, and read: “By <abbr>Lieut.</abbr> X⁠⸺, <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism" class="eoc">R.N.</abbr>” The name itself conveyed nothing to me, but I began to understand. Davies went on: “The name’s on the back, too⁠—and I’m certain it’s the last she looked at.”</p>
+			<p>“Dollmann!” cried Davies. “Dollmann wrote it.” I turned to the title-page, and read: “By <abbr>Lieut.</abbr> X⁠⸺, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">R.N.</abbr>” The name itself conveyed nothing to me, but I began to understand. Davies went on: “The name’s on the back, too⁠—and I’m certain it’s the last she looked at.”</p>
 			<p>“But how do you know?”</p>
 			<p>“And there’s the man himself. Ass that I am not to have seen it before! Look at the frontispiece.”</p>
 			<p>It was a sorry piece of illustration of the old-fashioned sort, lacking definition and finish, but effective notwithstanding; for it was evidently the reproduction, though a cheap and imperfect process, of a photograph. It represented a small yacht at anchor below some woods, with the owner standing on deck in his shirt sleeves: a well-knit, powerful man, young, of middle height, clean-shaved. There appeared to be nothing remarkable about the face; the portrait being on too small a scale, and the expression, such as it was, being of the fixed “photographic” character.</p>