THE YELLOW DOVE
would leave no opportunity for his plans to miscarry. Any opportunity, should there be one, must be created. Hammersley managed to wriggle into a sitting posture on the bed and spoke to his captor in German.
“You wouldn’t mind my having a smoke, would you?” he asked.
The man looked at him, debating the matter.
“Just get into the side pocket of my jacket and fish out my pipe and tobacco, mein junger. I need a smoke badly. And so would you if you were going to be shot in the morning.”
“Ach, wohl. I see no harm in that, mein Herr. You cannot smoke yourself away.”
He came over, brought out Hammersley’s short pipe, filled it from the pouch and stuck it between his lips. Then he got out a match and lighted it while Hammersley puffed.
“Ah!” said Hammersley contentedly. “You are a good fellow. Tomorrow morning I will give you my blessing.”
The man paced stolidly up and down beside the bed.
“I am sorry for you, mein Herr. But it is life. It is all decided for us beforehand. We are here a moment and then we are gone.”
Hammersley smiled.
“A fatalist! Then perhaps you can tell me if there is any chance of my escape.”
He was stopped abruptly.
“I can tell you that there is not,” he said severely.
“I would have said as much. But it was a pardonable curiosity, nicht wahr?”
“Pardonable, ja wohl,” the man replied, “but most unseemly under the circumstances.”
“You have a deep sense of your responsibilities.”
230
