"Why don't you wear one?" Tom asked.
"Me? Oh, I don't know—I don't think I look real well in a cork sash.... I bet you wouldn't have your photograph taken in one of those things," he added, after a moment's pause.
"Is Mr. von Stebel all right?" Tom ventured to ask.
"Oh, yes, he's all right; but glum as a rainy Sunday."
"Did he have any papers?" Tom asked, encouraged by the detective's agreeable manner.
"Well, he had a passport. Of course, it was forged. He had a trolley transfer from Wyndham, Ohio, 'bout a hundred miles west of Cleveland, and, let's see, a hotel bill of the Hotel Bishop in Cleveland. He has a suite there, I guess. I'd like to rummage through his trunk. I tripped him up two or three times, enough to find that he's got a lot of information about army places. Seems to have more of it in his head than he had in his pockets."
"You'll take him back, won't you?" Tom asked.
"Yes, or maybe send him back on the first ship across. They'll turn him inside out in New York. I don't believe he'll leave you anything in his will, Tommy."
Tom laughed. "It would be bad if he got to Germany, wouldn't it?" he asked. "I mean with all the information he's got."
"It would be worse than bad," said Mr. Conne. "It might be disastrous."