"How many?" the General repeated.
"Only the one in the case left," the clerk replied. "I just sold the last one in stock a moment ago. We've only had four delivered so far."
"I'll take it," said the General in a fever of impatience. He had to get it out of public view at once—although he had a sick sensation of already being too late. He recalled the Slavic appearance, the accent of the man who had made the last purchase.
When the clerk had wrapped it up, and he had paid for it, the General asked to see the manager, who proved to be a pleasantly tweedy individual. He produced his card and said, "I'm afraid this man MacReedy has violated security-regulations. Where else is his stuff marketed?"
The manager's expression was not friendly. He said, "Mr. MacReedy's miniatures are marketed nowhere else; he has an exclusive contract with us." He evidently resented the General's gruff approach as much as the General resented not being addressed by title.
Civilians! the General thought. The damned fools don't understand—they haven't the slightest idea....
Aloud he said, "Where can I find Mr. MacReedy? I'm afraid I'm going to have to talk to him."
"Uncle Angus? He lives next door. I'm going home now—I can show you."
The General had forgotten the male moppet. He looked down in surprise, then up at the manager, who said, "It's quite true. This is Toby. He helps Mr. MacReedy; he's a collector himself in a small way."
The General took Toby back with him to the hotel. He knew he should be burning up the wires to Washington with news of his horrendous discovery, but somehow he wanted to see it through himself—as far as he was able. Besides, there were certain puzzling facets that would scarcely look plausible in the dehydrated prose of an official report to Security.