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"Oh, yes," said Tom as the strange figures die away. He felt very proud, and not a little uncomfortable at being drawn into the centre of things. And he did not feel slighted as he saw Mr. Conne and the captive lieutenant, and the other officials whom he did not know, start away thoughtless of anything else in the stress of the extraordinary affair.
In the Quartermaster's office he waited on a bench while Mr. Conne and several other men, two in uniform and two that he thought might be Secret Service men, talked in undertones. If he had been a hero in a book, to use Mr.
He had been greatly agitated, but his wonted stolidness was returning now. Probably he felt more comfortable and at home coming along behind with Uncle Sam than he would have felt in the midst of this group where the vilest treason walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of Uncle Sam. Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom were following.
He means actual, concealed or disguised form, I s'pose. The idea is L.'s. I suppose he means the manner of concealing the key and credentials." "Yes," said Tom rather excitedly. Mr. Conne glanced at him, joggled his cigar, and went on, "You remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds.
Tom wished that the letter had told something about the detective's rescue and the fate of the spy, but he realized that Secret Service agents could hardly be expected to dwell on their adventures to "ship's boy" acquaintances, and was it not enough that Mr. Conne remembered him at all, and his wish to serve on an army transport? He took the letter into the private office to show it to Mr.
"Drop in to see me Saturday afternoon, room 509, Federal Building, New York, if you're interested. "Best wishes to you. "Carleton Conne." So Mr. Conne was alive and had not forgotten him.
Shrouded in her tumbled hair, her lips a little parted, every line of her slender body vibrant with an emotion which seemed consuming her, her beautiful eyes aglow with its fire, he saw in her, as Conné must have seen at another time, the soul of the great North itself.
"Oh, Père Jerome!" she exclaimed in the corrupt French of her caste, meeting the little father on the street a few days later, "you told the truth that day in your parlor. Mo conné li
After that perhaps a hundred passed down and away, none of them with glasses, and all of them he scrutinized carefully. Now another, with neatly adjusted rimless glasses, came down. He had a clean-cut, professional look. Tom did not take his eyes off the descending column for a second, but he heard Mr. Conne say pleasantly, "Just a minute."
Several "flivver" ambulances stood across the way, new and roughly made, destined for the front. American naval and military officers were all about. "We haven't got much time to spare, Tommy," said Mr. Conne, resuming his former seat and glancing at his watch. "It's only a second. I just got to turn the grease cup."
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