“Downstairs,” he replied fuzzily, and readjusted his slumbers.
There was no one moving about in the little court. I lingered somewhat on the way upstairs. The stairs were abnormally dirty. When I reentered, t-d was roaring to himself. I read the journal through again. It must have been about three o’clock.
Suddenly t-d woke up, straightened and buckled his personality, and murmured: “It’s time, come on.”
Le bureau de Monsieur le Ministre was just around the corner, as it proved. Before the door stood the patient F.I.A.T. I was ceremoniously informed by t-d that we would wait on the steps.
Well! Did I know any more?—the American driver wanted to know.
Having proved to my own satisfaction that my fingers could still roll a pretty good cigarette, I answered: “No,” between puffs.
The American drew nearer and whispered spectacularly: “Your friend is upstairs. I think they’re examining him.”
T-d got this; and though his rehabilitated dignity had accepted the “makin’s” from its prisoner, it became immediately incensed:
“That’s enough,” he said sternly.
And dragged me tout-à-coup upstairs, where I met B. and his t-d coming out of the bureau door. B. looked peculiarly cheerful. “I think we’re going to prison all right,” he assured me.