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Presently there came the steady footfalls of soldiers in formation and a sudden fear seized upon Tom.
“They—they ain’t going to arrest me, are they?” he asked, with alarm in every line of his ordinarily expressionless face.
“Put you both in the guardhouse,” said the captain briefly.[2]
“Didn’t you—didn’t you—believe me?” Tom pleaded simply and not without some effect.
“You and your brother get your jobs together?” the captain asked.
“Mr. Conne, who’s in the Secret Service, got me mine,” Tom said.
“Who did he recommend you to?” asked the detective.
Tom hesitated a moment. “To Mr. Wessel, the steward,” he said.
“Humph! Too bad Mr. Wessel died. You’ll both have to go to the guardhouse.”