nerves to grasp.” Lieutenant Valcour crossed casually to a chair placed before a secretary and sat down. “Sit down, Mr. Smith,” he said, “and tell me something about your friend Thomas.”
“The straightest, squarest gentleman who ever lived, sir. Why …” Mr. Smith plunged into a panegyric that would have brought a blush even to the toughened cheek of a Caligula.
Lieutenant Valcour permitted him to plunge. While the flood poured into his ears, his eyes were inconspicuously busied with such papers as were on view in the secretary.
Tom, darling [he read on the folded half of a sheet of notepaper]: Let’s tea on Thursday at the Ritz. 4:30, as Herbert …
Lieutenant Valcour did not consider it essential to reach out and turn the page. His fingers absently busied themselves with the leather sheath for, presumably, a metal paper cutter or, perhaps, a stiletto.
“Yes, he is an honourable and an upright gentleman, sir, and if you think there is anything wrong with him in the Endicott business”— Mr. Smith temporarily moved north of the Mason and Dixon Line—“you’re all wet.”
Mr. Smith was through.
“For how long has he known Endicott, Mr. Smith?”
“As I’ve been telling you, Lieutenant, ever since that night he saved Endicott’s life.”
Lieutenant Valcour became almost embarrassing in the sudden focusing of his attention. “Would it bother you very much, Mr. Smith, to tell me of that occurrence again?”