“That one!” cried Jimmie. “He’s a German spy!”
The patience of Judge Van Vorst fell from him. In his exclamation was indignation, anger, reproach.
“Jimmie!” he cried.
Jimmie thrust into his hand the map. It was his “Exhibit A.” “Look what he’s wrote,” commanded the scout. “It’s all military words. And these are his glasses. I took ’em off him. They’re made in Germany! I been stalking him for a week. He’s a spy!”
When Jimmie thrust the map before his face, Van Vorst had glanced at it. Then he regarded it more closely. As he raised his eyes they showed that he was puzzled.
But he greeted the prisoner politely.
“I’m extremely sorry you’ve been annoyed,” he said. “I’m only glad it’s no worse. He might have shot you. He’s mad over the idea that every stranger he sees—”
The prisoner quickly interrupted.
“Please!” he begged, “don’t blame the boy. He behaved extremely well. Might I speak with you–alone?” he asked.
Judge Van Vorst led the way across the terrace, and to the smoking-room, that served also as his office, and closed the door. The stranger walked directly to the mantelpiece and put his finger on a gold cup.