“Well, is there anything else, Angelo?”
“That guy Hiltze is a crook, too. He’s what you call a Red. He’s mixed up with all the funny business going on.”
“Are you sure, Angelo? You must only tell us what you really know.”
“Well, they’ve got a lot of crazy shacks around town, and they hold meetings. My dad goes to ’em. So a few times I went, too. This guy Hiltze does the talking. He’s got enough money. He don’t have to sell autos for a living, he does that for a blind, just like he strings Miss Eveley on the Americanization hot-air stuff.”
“Did you ever hear him speak?” asked Nolan.
“Sure. He says they are chasing him from cellar to garret, from mountain to desert. He says they are the damned rich, and they got to keep him harried to earth so they can grind the laborers under their heel. He gives ’em all money for doing things, and hauling stuff, and getting things across the border. I was there. He says they must pray God to strengthen them to fight to the last ditch. He says the army and navy are the slaves of the God of Money.”
“I know he had rather—advanced ideas,” said Eveley gravely. “But these are such troublous times. Every one feels the lack, and the need in the social life. He may have gone too far—but these are the days that try one’s soul. If it was only talk—”
“Aw gee,” interrupted Angelo. “They ain’t got no room to talk. I know all about that stuff. I was over there with the rest of ’em, and I know. We slept on straw, and dressed in rags, and lived like dogs. And they come to a decent country, and get soured because they ain’t fed up on chicken and wine like a lord. It’s a darn’ sight more than they ever had before, and the Secret Service needs to watch ’em. For they’re the ones that did for Russia—yes, and they’re doing it for Germany now, and trying it on Italy.”
The Secret Service—the diagnostician of social unrest, with professional finger on the pulse of the foreign element—had that finger touched the wrist of Marie?
“But this isn’t finding my Marie,” said Eveley. “I want her.”