Late in the afternoon Scarf came in. He came as a stoop-shouldered, consumptive-looking, unwashed District Messenger of uncertain age and stability.
“Well?” cried Zimmerlein, glaring at the man.
“Where in hell have you been?” grated Thorsensel.
“That's just where I have been,” replied the messenger, straightening his bent figure and drawing a long, full breath. He passed his hand across his brow. “Or rather, I've been close enough to get an unpleasant whiff of it.”
“Don't sit down!” exclaimed Zimmerlein, as the man prepared to sink into a chair.
“I 'm all in, I 've got to,” and down he flopped. After a moment he leaned forward and fixed the others with burning, hitter eyes. “In the first place, do you know what's happened to Elberon?”
“No,” fell in unison from the lips of the two men.
“Well, he's sitting up in the United States Attorney's office with half a dozen experts trying to pump intelligence out of him.”
An imprecation ground its way out between Thorsensel's teeth. Zimmerlein's lower lip tightened against his teeth.
“I had it from Zumpe. They went to Elberon's house early this morning,—on the quiet, of course,—nothing for the public,—and took him down for a grilling. Zumpe says old Elberon has been getting pretty gabby with one or two people who ought to be good Germans but ain't.”