"Oh!" said Jacobus, regarding him keenly. "English army, of course?"
"Yes," answered Val shortly, regretting his frankness.
"H'm! What were you—sergeant?"
Loveland could have broken out into savage laughter. He, a lieutenant in the Grenadier Guards, asked by this seedy theatrical man if he were a sergeant! But he kept his countenance, for fear of committing himself unwittingly under the catechismal fire.
"No. I wasn't a sergeant," he replied.
"H'm! See here. I hope you didn't leave the army—er—on short notice, eh? You know what I mean?"
"Do you mean, am I a deserter?" Loveland flashed out, turning red.
"Well, excuse me if I'm offensive. But the arm of Edward is supposed to be a long one, if any of his red coats take a vacation without permission, and I don't want to get into no trouble with kings. We may not be Noo York stars, but we're a pretty respectable crowd, take us all round."
"Well, set your mind at rest," said Loveland, swallowing his wrath. "I'm not a deserter, and I shan't bring disgrace upon your company."
"All right, all right. I'll take your word for it. I guess there's nothing else to do, as you're the only man on the spot. But say, the more I look at you, the more I have a kind of sneaking idea I've seen your picture lately. Did you get your photo stuck in any of the theatrical papers, since you landed?"