us two together again.
We walked side by side up the jetty road and on to the highway.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that we have met before, Herr Gaudian.’
He stopped short. ‘That is my name… but I do not… I do not think… ‘
‘Do you remember a certain Dutchman called Cornelius Brandt whom you entertained at your country house one night in December ‘15?’
He looked searchingly in my lace.
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘I also remember a Mr Richard Hanau, one of Guggenheim’s engineers, with whom I talked at Constantinople.’
‘The same,’ I said. For a moment I was not clear how he was going to take the revelation, but his next action reassured me, and I saw that I had not been wrong in my estimate of the one German I have ever wholeheartedly liked. He began to laugh, a friendly tolerant laugh.
‘Kreuzitürken!’ he cried. ‘It is indeed romantic. I have often wondered whether I should see or hear of you again, and behold! you step out of the darkness on a Norwegian fjord.’
‘You bear no malice?’ I said. ‘I served my country as you served yours. I played fair, as you played fair.’
‘Malice?’ he cried. ‘But we are gentlemen; also we are not children. I rejoice to see that you have survived the War. I have always wished you well, for you are a very bold and brave man.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ I said—‘only lucky.’
‘By what name shall I call you now Brandt or Hanau?’
‘My name is Richard Hannay, but for the present I am calling myself Cornelius Brand—for a reason which I am going to tell you.’ I had suddenly made up my mind to take Gaudian into my full confidence. He seemed to have been sent by Providence for that purpose, and I was not going to let such a chance slip.
But at my words he stopped short.
‘Mr Hannay,’ he said, ‘I do not want your confidence. You are still engaged, I take it, in your country’s service? I do not question your motive, but remember I am a German, and I cannot be party to the pursuit of one of my countrymen, however base I may think him.’
I could only stare. ‘But I am not in my country’s service,’ I stammered. ‘I left it at the Armistice, and I’m a farmer now.’
‘Do English farmers travel in Norway under false names?’
‘That’s a private business which I want to explain to you. I assure you there is no German in it. I want to keep an eye on the doings of a fashionable English doctor.’
‘I must believe you,’ he said after a pause. ‘But two hours ago a man arrived in the launch you see anchored out there. He is a fisherman and is now at the inn. That man is known to me—too well known. He is a German, who during the War served Germany in secret ways, in America and elsewhere. I did not love him and I think he did my country grievous ill, but that is a matter for us Germans to settle, and not for foreigners.’
‘I know your man as Dr Newhover of Wimpole Street.’
‘So?’ he said. ‘He has taken again his father’s name, which was Neuhofer. We knew him as Kristoffer. What do you want with him?’
‘Nothing that any honest German wouldn’t approve,’ and there and then I gave him a sketch of the Medina business. He exclaimed in horror.
‘Mr Hannay,’ he said hesitatingly, ‘you are being honest with me?’
‘I swear by all that’s holy I am telling you the plain truth, and the full truth. Newhover may have done anything you jolly well like in the War. That’s all washed out; I’m after him to get a line on a foul business which is English in origin. I want to put a spoke in the wheel of English criminals, and to save innocent lives. Besides, Newhover is only a subordinate. I don’t propose to raise a hand against him, only to find out what he is doing.’
He held out his hand. ‘I believe you,’ he said, ‘and if I can I will help you.’
He conducted me through the long street of the village, past the inn, where I supposed Newhover was now going to bed, and out on to the road which ran up the Skarso valley. We came in sight of the river, a mighty current full of melted snow, sweeping in noble curves through the meadowland in that uncanny dusk. It appeared that he lodged with Peter Bojer, who had a spare bed, and when we reached the cottage, which stood a hundred yards from the highway on the very brink of the stream, Peter was willing to let me have it. His wife gave us supper—an omelette, smoked salmon, and some excellent Norwegian beer—and after it I got out my map and had a survey of the neighbourhood.
Gaudian gave me a grisly picture of the condition of his own country. It seemed that the downfall of the old regime had carried with it the decent wise men like himself, who had opposed its follies, but had lined up with it on patriotic grounds when the War began. He said that Germany was no place for a moderate man, and that the power lay with the bloated industrials, who were piling up fortunes abroad while they were wrecking their country at home. The only opposition, he said, came from the communists, who were half-witted, and the monarchists, who wanted the impossible. ‘Reason is not listened to, and I fear there is no salvation till my poor people have passed through the last extremity. You foreign Powers have hastened our destruction, when you had it in your hands to save us. I think you have meant well, but you have been blind, for you have not supported our moderate men and have by your harshness played the game of the wreckers among us.’
It appeared that he was very poor now, like all the professional classes. I thought it odd that this man, who had a world-wide reputation as an engineer, couldn’t earn a big income in any country he chose. Then I saw that it was because he had lost the wish to make money. He had seen too deep into the vanity of human wishes to have any ambition left. He was unmarried, with no near relations, and he found his pleasure in living simply in remote country places and watching flowers and beasts. He was a keen fisherman, but couldn’t afford a good beat, so he leased a few hundred yards from a farmer, who had not enough water to get a proper rent for it, and he did a lot of trout fishing in the tarns high up in the hills and in the Skarso above the foss. As he sat facing me beyond the stove, with his kind sad brown eyes and his rugged face, I thought how like he was to a Scottish moorland shepherd. I had liked him when I first saw him in Stumm’s company, but now I liked him so much that because of him I was prepared to think better of the whole German race.
I asked him if he had heard of any other Englishman in the valley—anyone of the name of Jason, for instance. He said no; he had been there for three weeks, but the fishing did not begin for another fortnight, and foreign visitors had not yet arrived. Then I asked him about the saeter farms, and he said that few of these were open yet, since the high pastures were not ready. One or two on the lower altitudes might be already inhabited’ but not many, though the winter had been a mild one and the spring had come early. ‘Look at the Skarso,’ he said. ‘Usually in April it is quite low, for the snowfields have not begun to melt. But today it is as brimming as if it were the middle of May.’
He went over the map with me—an inch-to-a-mile one I had got in London—and showed me the lie of the land. The saeters were mostly farther up the river, reached by paths up the tributary glens. There was a good road running the length of the valley, but no side roads to connect with the parallel glens, the Uradal and the Bremendal. I found indeed one track marked on the map, which led to
