"W-who said that?" he demanded hoarsely. "Where are you?"
"Who speaks," said the quiet, insistent voice, "does not matter. Nor the spot from whence I speak. The important thing is that you hear and obey my words. Make not the error of hurling the tribute money in anyone's face. Deliver it to your superior officer—but see that you get a signed receipt for it. Do you understand?"
"No!" said Corporal Tandred weakly. "I hear a voice speaking, but see no one. I don't understand—"
"It is not necessary that you understand. Just obey. Get a signed receipt for that money. That is all!"
"Wait!" cried Corporal Tandred. "Wait a minute—!" He was talking to himself. Even as he spoke, he sensed that. The strange, semi-electrical feeling of a nearby presence was gone.
For a moment he sat stock-still, trying to sooth his ruffled nerves. His effort was not altogether successful; he started the unicar with a jerk, and sped down the avenue at a rate of speed forbidden by civic ordinance. A uniformed attendant frowned disapproval as he screeled to a stop in front of the Revenue Office, but Corporal Tandred paid him no heed. He hurried straightway to the central office, there deposited his collections before his captain.
The captain nodded abstractedly, then, his attention drawn by some oddness in the subaltern's appearance, raised a questioning eyebrow.
"What is it, Tandred? Anything wrong?"
"N-no, sir," said the corporal uncertainly.