Explore "The Final Count" by H.C. McNeile on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I am on board a ship. She is filling with oil now from a tanker alongside. No lights. No idea where we are. Thought the country we motored through resembled Devonshire. / They're Russians -- the crew -- unless I'm much mistaken. The most frightful gang of murderous-looking cutthroats I've ever seen. Two of them fighting now: officers seem to have no control. Difficult to tell which are the officers. Believe my worst fears confirmed: the Bolsheviks have my secret. May God help the world!
Underway. Just read the papers Wilmot spoke about. Is Stockton mad? Why did he say nothing at the inquest? And Joe -- poor little chap. How dare they say such things about me? The War Office knew; why have they kept silent?