“Have you found them? Have you found them?” he demands.

Wilfred’s smile disappears. He puts his arms around Johann’s back and says, “I’m afraid not, old chap, but never fear. We shan’t rest until we find the girls, shall we?”

“No, sir.”

Elfriede can’t speak. The waiter, attempting with limited success to disguise his pleasure, draws out her chair. Wilfred catches her gaze. A little of the smile returns to his wide mouth.

“I had your letter on the ship,” he says.

“I was afraid it wouldn’t have reached you.”

“It did. I apologize for my tardiness. I’m afraid I couldn’t arrange another leave so soon.”

“I didn’t—of course I didn’t expect—”

“But I took the liberty of making clear at the Foreign Office that if any civil service chaps heading to Germany stood in need of the services of an expert military attaché, I should be more than happy with the appointment.”

“Oh.” She sits down. “Oh.”

The waiter stands by. Johann boldly orders lemonade. Elfriede thinks she’ll need something a little stronger.

On the last day of the month, Elfriede and Wilfred are married, not in Berlin or even in England, but in the small village in Scotland where his regiment is based, before Wilfred’s bemused parents, a host of Scotch Presbyterian aunts, some gleeful fellow officers, and the diplomat whose timely Berlin mission provided the means for their reunion. His name, since you ask, is Mr. Cholmondeley. He’s about forty, dark-haired, genial and intelligent. He thinks Wilfred’s a top bloke, a pukka chap who’s got all the damned luck with women, and he’s tickled pink at his role in the whole affair. He gives the bride away in the small service at the regimental chapel. Johann bears the ring.