The girl rose to her feet, evidently reassured by the benevolent appearance of the woman.
"Do not worry, Tommy," she said. "It will be all right. It is of no use to argue with these people. There is nothing to do but submit."
"So it seems," Stewart muttered, and watched her until she disappeared through the door.
"Now, sir," said the officer, sharply, "your clothes."
Crimson with anger and humiliation, Stewart handed them over piece by piece, saw pockets turned out, linings loosened here and there, the heels of his shoes examined, his fountain-pen unscrewed and emptied of its ink. At last he stood naked under the flaring light, feeling helpless as a baby.
"Well, I hope you are satisfied," he said, vindictively.
With a curt nod, the officer handed him back his underwear.
"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.