Sam noticed something most peculiar about the aviator’s manner, but he was in no mood just then to criticize it.
“Well, that’s about all. He just hasn’t shown up and I can’t find any trace of him.”
“That is more than strange,” said De Garros in a serious voice, “when I tell you that I myself saw him not more than two hours ago.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Where.”
De Garros looked embarrassed. He laid a kindly hand on the shoulder of the anxious lad beside him.
“I hated to believe my own eyes and I hate to tell you what I saw,” he said seriously, “but I saw your chum and my friend being helped out of a low dram shop in the negro quarter into a cab. He was—I hate to say it, but I must—tipsy.”
Sam started back from the Frenchman with flaming cheeks and angry eyes.
“It’s a lie, I don’t care who says it!—It’s a lie!” he burst out angrily.