Page 134 - the-thirty-nine-steps

men, wearisome, if you like, but sordidly innocent.
And yet there were three of them; and one was old, and
one was plump, and one was lean and dark; and their house
chimed in with Scudder’s notes; and half a mile off was lying
a steam yacht with at least one German officer. I thought of
Karolides lying dead and all Europe trembling on the edge
of earthquake, and the men I had left behind me in Lon-
don who were waiting anxiously for the events of the next
hours. There was no doubt that hell was afoot somewhere.
The Black Stone had won, and if it survived this June night
would bank its winnings.
There seemed only one thing to do go forward as if I had
no doubts, and if I was going to make a fool of myself to do it
handsomely. Never in my life have I faced a job with greater
disinclination. I would rather in my then mind have walked
into a den of anarchists, each with his Browning handy, or
faced a charging lion with a popgun, than enter that happy
home of three cheerful Englishmen and tell them that their
game was up. How they would laugh at me!
But suddenly I remembered a thing I once heard in Rho-
desia from old Peter Pienaar. I have quoted Peter already in
this narrative. He was the best scout I ever knew, and before
he had turned respectable he had been pretty often on the
windy side of the law, when he had been wanted badly by
the authorities. Peter once discussed with me the question
of disguises, and he had a theory which struck me at the
time. He said, barring absolute certainties like fingerprints,
mere physical traits were very little use for identification if
the fugitive really knew his business. He laughed at things

134 The Thirty-Nine Steps