"May I beg a moment with you, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"Certainly. What is it? Nothing gone wrong, I hope."
"That telephone call was from Lingen, from Captain Schiller; and I can't make head or tail of it. You will not be offended with me, I trust, if I tell you what he says—what I understood him to say, at least."
"My dear Mr. Harden, I hope I am not so foolish."
"Well, he appears to be under the impression that you are not here."
I burst out laughing. "Poor Schiller! He's always got a bee in his bonnet; keeps a regular hive always on tap. I wonder what the devil has put that rot into his head."
"From what I could gather—I trust you'll pardon my even mentioning it—he appears to think that you were too—well, that you had had more wine at the Halbermond for it to be quite safe for you to go."
I cursed Schiller, whoever he might be, volubly and sincerely, for an interfering jackass. "I think you can settle that for yourself, Harden."
"Oh yes, I told him so, but—but his reply was—was very singular. He said that you had had to be assisted into your car at Lingen, that it wasn't possible you could have thrown off the effects in the short time, and, in fact, that if you appeared to have done so, you could not be Lieutenant Vibach."
More cursing of Schiller from me. "He'll have to answer for this, I can assure you," I exclaimed fiercely. "What did you reply?"