“Did either your father or your mother have any German blood?”
I could hear a slight rustle back of me among the passengers, none of whom, it was plain, had been subjected to such cross-questioning. I was growing restive, but I couldn’t tell him it was not his business; of course it was.
“No; they didn’t,” I briefly replied.
“About your destination now.” He was making notes of all my answers. “You are going to Italy, and then—”
“To France.”
“Roundabout trip, rather. The Bordeaux route is safer just now and quicker, too. Why not have gone that way? And how long are you planning to stop over on this side?”
“It depends upon circumstances.” What on earth ailed the fellow? He was as annoying as a mosquito or a gnat.
“I beg your pardon, but your plans seem rather at loose ends, don’t they? What are you crossing for?”
“To drive an ambulance!” I answered as curtly as the words could be said.
I saw his face soften and humanize at the information. For once I had made a satisfactory response, it seemed. But on the heels of my answer there rose the voice of Mr. McGuntrie, sensational, accusing, pitched almost at a shriek.