“Right you are,” I answered.
“This is the one,” he continued, turning to the superintendent, “The police followed him from Hiroshima. He is a Russian, they telegraph me.”
“Nonsense!” said the manager; “He’s an American.”
“How can that be?” queried the second officer. “He wears even a Russian uniform.”
A light broke in upon me. No wonder I had been so popular with the police for four days past.
“Russian nothing,” I answered. “This is an American uniform from the Philippines.”
“Just the kind the Russians wear,” objected the officer, stretching out a hand to feel the texture of my jacket. “How, Mr. Manager, do you know he is an American?”
“By his talk, of course,” replied the superintendent.
“But you are an Englishman,” retorted the detective.
“Just the reason I can tell an American,” responded the manager.