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Updated: June 12, 2025
Froelich's name was German, and of course it was natural that he would have German sympathies." "Um! And what do you think, Mr. Crane?" The Assistant Commissioner was silent for a moment. "You see, I don't know Mr. Froelich," he said. "But you do know Mr. Ramsey," replied Clancey. "Not well." "What about his chief? You know him well enough. Why not ask him?"
Any kid that will start out by addressing its parents chummily as 'Helen' and 'Jerry' and act naively surprised at the reaction, obviously has rules of its own." They ruminated in silence for a moment. "It's too easy to talk vaguely about blocks and short circuits, Clancey. How do you account for his completely erratic progress?
"The colonel sent Clancey after you and Crosby. Clancey reported that he couldn't find you. So we sent Curtis. They went to act as escort for Colonel Patten and the pay. He's coming up to-night in the stage." Ranson was gazing down into his glass. Before he raised his head he picked several pieces of ice out of it and then drained it. "The paymaster, hey?" he said.
"I shall be charmed to do what I can," replied Clancey, "but as they simply loathe me at Headquarters I don't think it will do you much good." They fell to discussing other things. Bobby, obsessed by his recent experiences, could not resist telling his companion something about them. But he did not mention Ramsey. The implied admission that he had been cut out was too humiliating.
A series of memories snapped into place. "Eight. And I laughed at Clancey!" "I know I heard. You were getting too close for comfort so I distracted you by giving you a headache." "Stop let me get my breath!" His voice rose until it threatened to crack. What am I talking to! A dog?" "Yes." "Homer? I don't believe it!" "Watch."
"Did you say she was French?" he asked. "Her husband was; she herself is Russian." Clancey looked at him. "Oh, Russian, is she? Corantin, Corantin. Let me see. I seem to remember the name somehow." "No, do you?" Bobby's voice betrayed his interest. "I must think about it," said Clancey. He pulled out his watch. "I think it is time I got back to the War Office.
Clancey was running down the street towards Piccadilly as fast as his legs could carry him. Another shock was in store for poor Bobby. Jumping out of his taxi, he presented himself to the hall-porter, armed with his huge paper parcel from the florist. "For Madame de Corantin," he said. The porter looked at him; he knew him well and accepted the offering hesitatingly.
Address: Hotel des Indes, The Hague quite a comfortable place and quite an important German espionage centre." "I gather that our man was too late." "By some hours, I should say," Clancey replied. "You see, we only got the report in from France quite late. I sent your man to watch her while I went to see Froelich. I was sure he was all right, but I wanted to satisfy myself.
"Oh, can't you take a joke?" he said. "Take another drink, then." The voice outside the hut was too low to reach the irate Cahill, but Ranson heard it and leaped to his feet. "Wait," he commanded. He ran to the door, and met Sergeant Clancey at the threshold. "Miss Cahill, lieutenant," said the sergeant, "wants to see her father." Cahill had followed Ranson to the door, "You want to see me, Mame?
"Both dead," he answered quietly. "Clancey, pass in a number three jack, and get under yourself with another at the other end of the truck." He lay on his back, staring straight up at one single star that rocked mistily through a thinning of cloud-stuff overhead. The old ache was in his throat, the old harsh dryness in mouth and eyes.
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