"My name, if that's what you mean, happens to be the uneuphonious but highly respectable one of Kerfoot—Witter Kerfoot."
"No, no," he said with quick impatience. "What are you?"
"I'm nothing much, except a member of a rather respectable club, and a man who doesn't sleep overly well."
His eyes were still keenly watching the slowly departing figure. My flippancy seemed to have been lost on him. His muscular young hand suddenly tightened on my sleeve.
"By God, sir, you can help me!" he cried, under his breath. "You must! I've a right to call on you, as a decent citizen, as—"
"Who are you?" I interrupted, quite myself by this time.
"I'm Lieutenant Palmer," he absently admitted, all the while eying the moving figure.
"And I've got to get that man, or it'll cost me a court-martial. I've got to get him. Wait! Sit back here without moving. Now watch what he does!"
I saw the thief drop into an empty bench, glance, down at his time-piece, look carelessly about, and then, lean back with his legs crossed. Nothing more happened.
"Well," I inquired, "what's the game?"