“I wish to speak to Private Simmons, placed under arrest by my orders,” he said brusquely.
“Simmons?” Hemingway spoke rather superciliously. “Oh, yes—the man brought in from the balloon squad. Why, he isn’t here. I heard that there was only a slight disorderly charge against him, and I let him go to his quarters.”
“You heard!” repeated Grail icily. “Didn’t you know the nature of the accusation against him?”
The other manifested a shade of anxiety. “Why—er—no,” he stammered. “I was not here, you see, when the fellow was brought in, and just as I returned both the corporal and sergeant were called out by a fight over at barracks.”
“And you did not consult the book before taking this step?”
“No,” Hemingway was obliged to confess. To tell the truth, he had deemed it rather smart to set at liberty one whom he supposed to be merely a victim of the adjutant’s ill humor; but now doubts began to assail him.
Hastily he caught up the record of offenders for the day, and noted the charge entered opposite the name of Simmons; then fell back, with a little gasp.
“Attempted murder!” he exclaimed. “Here, corporal! Sergeant! Somebody! Hustle over to barracks, and bring back that man Simmons we had here a while ago.”
But, as might have been expected, the bird had flown; and, although a squad was instantly ordered out to search the city for him, and the police were put upon the case, both Hemingway and Grail knew that with so much of a start the chances of catching him were very slim indeed.
The culpable lieutenant, court-martial staring him in the face, started to stammer some wild excuses; but Grail merely turned on his heel, and marched off to his quarters. He had scored heavily over one of his enemies, but he gathered little gratification from the fact. He would have preferred a chance to question Simmons.