I'm in the service, and it
doesn't do her any good to have her citizens get in bad with France."
Standing there, gazing at him with an air of bored inquiry, behind my
mask of indifference I racked my brain. What did he want of me? What
did he want of Miss Falconer? What was he doing in this military galley?
Hopeless queries, without the key to the puzzle!
"Well?" I said.
"I don't ask you," he went on crisply, "what you're doing here--"
"You had better not!" I snapped. "What tomfoolery is this? Do you think
you are a police officer heckling a crook? And why should you ask me
such a question any more than I should ask you?"
He grinned meaningly.
"Well," he commented, "there might be reasons. I'm here on business,
with papers in order, and three French officers to answer for me; but
you're a kind of a funny person to make a bee-line for a place like
Bleau. An inn like this doesn't seem your style, somehow. I'd say the
Ritz was more your type. And while we're at it, did you go to the Paris
_Prefecture_ this morning, like all foreigners are told to, and show
your passport, and get your police card? Have you got it with you? If
you have you stepped pretty lively, considering you left Paris by three
o'clock.
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