Chapter 17: Clearing the Air

⁠​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌⁠“Has he gone to get the police, do you think?” said Davies, grimly.

“I don’t think so,” said I. “Let’s go aboard before that Customs fellow buttonholes us.”

A diminished row of stolid Frisians still ruminated over the Dulcibella. Friend Grimm was visible smoking on his forecastle. We went on board in silence.

“First of all, where exactly is Memmert?” I said.

Davies pulled down the chart, said “There,”