Capper rose wearily, the air of a misunderstood man on him.
"Perhaps they aren't trying to capture it. I know nothing about that. Well—I've done my duty—as one Englishman to another. I hope I've told you in time. I'll be going now."
General Crandall swung on him sharply. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
Capper shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. Now was the minute he'd been counting on—the peeling of crackling notes from a fat bundle, the handsome words of appreciation. Surely General Crandall was ripe.
"Well, General, frankly—I'm broke. Haven't a shilling to bless myself with. I thought perhaps——" Capper shot a keen glance at the older man's face, which was partly turned from him. The general appeared to be pondering. He turned abruptly on the spy.
"A few drinks and you might talk," he challenged.
Capper grinned deprecatively. "I don't know, General—I might," he murmured. "I've been away from the drink so long that——"
"Where do you want to go?" General Crandall cut him off. "Of course, you don't want to stay here indefinitely."
"Well—if I had a bit of money—they tell me everybody's broke in Paris. Millionaires—and everybody, you know. You can get a room at the Ritz for the asking. That would be heaven for me—if I had something in my pocket."
"You want to go to Paris, eh?" General Crandall stepped closer to Capper, and his eyes narrowed in scorn.