“I did see him.”
“Say, ‘sir’,” prompted the aide.
“I did—sir.” It plainly hurt to say it.
“When and where did you see him last?”
“At one-thirty, getting into a police wagon—sir.”
“Exactly,” said the general. “You of course provided him with clothing before the—er—arrest.”
“I did not,” said the elevator man, who had by now decided that no man could bully him, even if he did wear two stars. “He stole a suit. And before he did that he like to killed two men. Mr. Booth, he’s in the hospital now; and as for the other gentleman, he was took away in a taxi last night. If he was one of your men, all I got to say is——”
“Of no importance whatever,” finished the general coldly. “Find out where he was taken,” he added to Tommy, and stalked out. The elevator man followed him with resentful eyes.
“You tell Pershing, or the Secretary of War, or whatever that is,” he said venomously, “that his pet wild cat is in the central police station. I expect he’s in a padded cell. Good-by.”
An hour later the little car stopped in front of the best restaurant in town and the general assisted his niece to get out. From the folding seat behind, two pairs of long legs, one in khaki and one in black rather too short, disentangled themselves and followed. The best restaurants in town in the morning present a dishabille appearance of sweepers, waiters without coats and general dreariness; but the general took the place by storm.