“I will keep these for the moment,” he said, indicating the little pile of things taken from the pockets. “You may dress. Your clothes, at least, are American!”
As he spoke, the woman entered from the farther door, with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Stewart turned hastily away, struggling into his trousers as rapidly as he could, and cursing the careless immodesty of these people. Sullenly he laced his shoes, and put on his collar, noting wrathfully that it was soiled. He kept his back to the man at the table—he felt that it would be indecent to watch him scrutinizing those intimate articles of apparel.
“You have examined her hair?” he heard the man ask.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Very well; you may take these back.”
Not until he heard the door close behind her did Stewart turn around. The officer was lighting a cigarette. The careless unconcern of the act added new fuel to the American’s wrath.
“Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of all this?” he demanded. “Why should my wife and I be compelled to submit to these indignities?”
“We are looking for a spy,” replied the other imperturbably, and addressed himself to an examination of the things he had taken from Stewart’s pockets—his penknife, his watch, the contents of his purse, the papers in his pocket-book. He even placed a meditative finger for an instant on the two tiny metal clips which had come from the Cook ticket. But to reconstruct their use was evidently too great a task even for a German police agent, for he passed on almost at once to something else. “Very good,” he said at last, pushed the pile toward its owner, and opened the passport, which he had laid to one side.
“That passport will tell you that I am not a spy,” said Stewart, putting his things angrily back into his pockets. “That, it seems to me, should be sufficient.”
“As far as you are concerned, it is entirely sufficient,” said the other. “One can see at a glance that you are an American. But the appearance of Madame is distinctly French.”