“Even German ex-naval officers have to live, my friend,” responded Jensen, axiomatically. “And--I ask you--what is open to them but to take service in the mercantile marine of other nations? There is no more German fleet--there are not enough merchant vessels left under the German flag to employ all their trained officers. On the other hand, all the Scandinavian nations have multiplied their trading fleets--they cannot find officers enough for them. A first-class seaman like Horst, speaking Swedish like a native, would find plenty of owners only too willing to employ him.” “It sounds plausible,” agreed Lyngstrand, but somewhat doubtfully. “Plausible!” repeated Jensen, scornfully. “It is more than plausible--the more I think of it, the more certain I am. Consider! Is Horst the typical rough merchant skipper? You know perfectly well he is not. You said yourself, the first evening we came aboard, that although he had the soul of a pig he had the manners of a gentleman. How does he speak Swedish--like a man who has spent half his life knocking about harbour drinking-shops? No! He expresses himself with that precise accuracy of the man employing a language well learnt, indeed, but nevertheless foreign to him--like you and I speak English, my friend. And his clothes!--Did you ever know the skipper of a tramp steamer wear a stiff white collar while at sea? Then his curt way of giving orders--no question about discipline, but you should see some of our Swedish forecastle-hands stare at him! One of them stared a moment too long just before you came aboard. He knocked him clean out!--He is a German naval officer, I will swear to it!--More than that, I am convinced that he commanded a submarine!” “That chart, then----?” “Is the chart of his sinkings!” “By God!” said Lyngstrand, solemnly, setting his teeth and staring sternly at the charthouse wall. “If I were sure of it----!” “What do you mean?” asked Jensen, struck by this sudden change from his friend’s ordinarily meek demeanour. “What has it to do with you?” Lyngstrand turned to him with a bitter little laugh. He seemed, indeed, a different man. “More than you think, my friend,” he said, briefly. “I am not good company for U-boat commanders!” “But why?--You lost no one----?” Lyngstrand’s serious eyes held his. “You remember I went to America in 1917, Jensen? I met a girl there--we were betrothed. She was coming to Europe to me last year. She never arrived. Her ship--a neutral--a small Norwegian ship, the _Trondhjem_, on which I had arranged for her passage--was torpedoed in the Atlantic last September--_spurlos versenkt_!” He finished in a tone of bitter mimicry, and then suddenly hid his face in his hands through a silence which Jensen felt incapable of breaking. At last he looked up again. “If ever I trace the scoundrel who murdered her----!” The ugly menace in his voice supplied the final clause to his unfinished sentence. “A difficult task!” murmured Jensen, sympathetically.