_By Blinton X. Krapt._
The streets of Cowes are bathed in sunlight. Smart yachtsmen,
accompanied by daintily dressed ladies, walk hither and thither. The
shopkeepers chat pleasantly. The burly policeman drowsily pursues
his way. Children shout happily. Surely here is peace, says the
unsuspecting visitor.
A brown-faced man with a light beard and a heavy tread approached
us. "It is all right," said my companion to him; "this gentleman is
a friend." Then, lowering his voice, he added: "_He came over last
night._" "Beautiful place, Cowes, isn't it?" said the bronzed man. I
noticed that his hip pocket bulged. Yet none would have suspected that
his conversation was not of a perfectly ordinary character.
Entering the most sumptuous hotel in Cowes we had lunch. There was
nothing sinister about the place except that the waiters were German.
But I noted signs of understanding between them and my friend. "I have
been here before," he explained, with a quick glance about him.
So life goes on from day to day. We are waiting, waiting. The little
boot-maker in his shop is waiting. The tailor is waiting. The hotel
staffs are waiting. The passengers on the railway platforms are
waiting. On the surface life is gay and free from care; but what I may
have to tell you when it comes round to my turn to write again, who
can say?
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