“Oh, I saw you studying it one day at The Elms, but you didn’t have it on the moor.”
Fritz’s scowl changed to an expression of disappointment.
“I haf mislaid it,” he grunted, and again his glance dwelt on Angèle, who met his gaze with a bland indifference that seemed to gall him.
Colonel Grant drew near. He had been eyeing the two spick-and-span chauffeurs.
“Who is your friend, Martin?” he said. He was interested in everything the boy did and in everyone whom he knew.
“Oh, this is Fritz Bauer, Mrs. Saumarez’s chauffeur.... Fritz, this is Colonel Grant, of the Indian Army.”
Instantly the two young Germans straightened as though some mechanism had stiffened their spines and thrown back their heads. The newcomer’s heels clicked and his right hand was raised in a salute. Fritz, better schooled than his comrade by longer residence in England, barely prevented his heels from clicking, and managed to convert the salute into a raising of his cap. There could be no doubt that he was flustered, because he said not a word, and the open-air tan of his cheeks assumed a deeper tint.
Apparently, Colonel Grant saw nothing of this, or, if he noticed the man’s confusion, attributed it to nervousness.
“Two Mercedes cars in one small village!” he exclaimed laughingly. “You Germans are certainly conquering England by peaceful penetration.”
Mrs. Saumarez elected, after all, not to visit the White House that afternoon, so Angèle, having said good-by to the colonel and Martin in her prettiest manner, was whisked off in the car.