"If you please," said the officer to me in another tone.
As I came forward, his eyes ran over me from head to foot. So
did Captain Cecchi's; but I hardly noticed; these uniforms, these
formalities, these war precautions, were like a dash of comic opera. I
was not taking them seriously in the least. The Britisher gestured me
toward a seat, but it seemed superfluous for so brief an interview, and
I remained standing with my hands resting on a chair.
"I'll have your passport!" There was something curt in his manner. "Ah!
And your name is--?"
"My name is Devereux Bayne."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Where do you live?"
"In New York and Washington." If he could be laconic, so could I.
"You were born in America?"
"No. I was born in Paris." By this time questions and answers were like
the pop of rifle-shots.
"That was a long way from home. Lucky you chose the country of one of
our Allies." Was this sarcasm or would-be humor? It had an unpleasant
ring.
"Glad you like it," I responded, with a cold stare, "but I didn't pick
it.
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