“Sergeant, bring the prisoner to the orderly room!”
In the orderly room Birnier was placed between Sergeant Schultz at his table and Sergeant Schneider by the door. Birnier watched zu Pfeiffer intently, but zu Pfeiffer regarded him icily as if he were a piece of furniture. Without a word Birnier reached out and lifted a chair. Sergeant Schneider started forward, evidently fearing that the prisoner was about to attack his officer. Birnier said acidly: “I merely wish to sit down.”
Zu Pfeiffer scowled again, but he made no objection. He took up some papers at random and began to peruse them. Said Birnier sharply:
“When you have finished with this farce I shall be obliged if you will kindly explain your insane actions!”
The tap-tap of a typewriter sounded from another room. A fly buzzed. Zu Pfeiffer’s eyelids did not blink. The sergeants stared woodenly to the front. Birnier looked from one to the other, bit his lips, and then exclaimed in exasperation: “What in hell do you mean by this damned nonsense?”
The tap-tap continued; the fly buzzed irritatedly. Birnier clenched his fist. But he sat still. Another storm so darkened the room that zu Pfeiffer could scarcely have seen the print, but apparently he read on. The deluge roared, passed, and the glare came as suddenly. Zu Pfeiffer lifted his head and said in German:
“Sergeant, record the opening of the Court.”
“Excellence!” assented Sergeant Schultz and poised his pen ready to write.
“The prisoner, a Swiss subject——”
“I am American, as I have told you,” said Birnier in leashed anger.