Richard whistled.... “What an old muddle it is! I’m in the same box,” he added, envying the man his Gallipoli experience, exploding shell and all.
“Yes, I know, sir; or I wouldn’t ’ave been so bold——”
“Know? How do you know?” God! there surely could not be anything German in his appearance ... horrible thought!
“It’s talked about among the folks in the neighbourhood, sir; there’s a gentleman at Montagu ’All as isn’t too friendly to you, I believe; an’ ’e seems to have told the policeman at the corner to keep a sharp eye——”
“I see. Thanks. Good-day.”
Mr Gryce. And the mythical policeman of Otto Rothenburg’s dread, materialized at last. Not that it mattered; there was nothing for him to find out. “May as well make up my mind to the fact that I’m a criminal,” muttered Richard with a grim smile. It was part of the nightmare that his absolute belief that the foundations of things were “all right,” solid ground upon which the foot might solidly tread, had now been shaken to this ... this ricketiness. “I can’t be a German—I don’t like the Germans!” his cry of a year ago, had been incredulous of a state of the world in which such things could happen. Now: “I haven’t done anything!”—but his tone was acceptance that such things did happen, and therefore anything could happen, and go on happening ... who or what was left to stand security?
“When will the boots be ready?” Aunt Stella enquired.
“Early next week.”
“As soon as that?”