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Very slowly, he slid one broad hand back into the short tail of his tunic, extricated his notebook with a flourish, and, opening it and producing a pencil, called upon the station-master to bear witness to the words uttered. "Mark the words of this Herr Winterborgen," he said.
It was of no use shouting back at the man; it was of no use engaging in a wordy quarrel with him; and of little service to take note of the covert smiles of the station-master and the sidelong winks he directed at the manager of the sugar factory a manager now wonderfully transformed the worthy Herr Winterborgen, who was even smiling.
"Yes, Herr Winterborgen, this is an important matter so important, indeed, that for your own sake you will see that you attend promptly when called for." It was with a gasp of relief that the manager saw the car driven away at furious speed, while he stood staring out of the window, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
"So," he said, standing over the portly figure of the little man, as he came from the motor-car and stumbled down the platform, "so, you have obeyed, Herr Winterborgen, you are here to identify the three whose return in captivity we are waiting. That is good, and certainly you will be able to tell us that they are the individuals." The manager held his hands up, expostulating weakly.
Then a brilliant idea seized upon the brain of the clerk an idea which sent a hot flush from the top of his head to the soles of his somewhat flat feet. "That party of soldiers who came here a little time ago," he cried; "those prisoners who broke out of Ruhleben who else, mein Herr Winterborgen who else can have wanted such clothing, such disguises?
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