“Don’t be a chump,” complained Henri. “This is a serious matter, I tell you.”
“What’s the use of crying, old top, when you can sing?”
Billy was prescribing a tonic for his partner.
“There is just one man who can get us out of this scrape,” stated Henri, “and he wears horn spectacles.”
“It won’t take that man long to find us; he’s a smooth one.”
Billy had the utmost confidence in Herr Roque’s ability as a sleuth since the affair of the “music boxes.”
Footfalls sounded in the long corridor outside.
“Maybe that’s him now,” was Henri’s eager expression, as he hastened to the grated door of the cell.
But the footfalls did not belong to Roque. The man at the door was only a burly guard who handed in two tins of hot coffee and a dangling roll of raw sausages.
“Say, major,” pleaded Henri in German, “we’ve got a good friend uptown that knows all about us—can’t we get word to him?”