Stacey seized a paper-weight, lifted it, and flung it down with a crash. “Damn you! The key to four-twelve, I said! And be quick about it!”
The clerk jumped. “Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, and reached a trembling hand for the key.
Probably at a normal moment he would have asserted his right to respect as a free American citizen. To-night things were rather strange.
CHAPTER XI
The next morning, after Stacey had bathed, he stood for a moment, reflecting, then again put on his uniform. In the midst of dressing he paused to look in the telephone directory for the name of the lieutenant whom he had especially liked in his first company and who, he remembered, lived in Omaha. He called up the number.
“Curtis Traile’s house? . . . Oh, this Traile? Good! Stacey Carroll talking.”
He heard a joyful exclamation. “It is! What are you doing here? Where are you?”
Stacey told him.
“Then you—you saw all that mess last night?”
“Yes,” said Stacey drily. “Listen, Traile! Can I see you this morning? If you’ll tell me how to get to where you live I’ll—”