"Here's your party," I hears her remark cheerful, and then this other voice comes in.
Well, it's Norton Plummer, that fussy little lawyer neighbor of ours who lives about half a mile the other side of the railroad. Since he's been made chairman of the local Council of Defense and put me on as head of one of his committees, he's rung me up frequent, generally at dinner-time, to ask if I have anything to report. Seems to think, just because I'm a reserve lieutenant on special detail, that I ought to be discoverin' spies and diggin' out plots every few minutes.
"Yes, yes," says I. "This is me. What then?"
"Did you read about that German naval officer who escaped from an internment camp last week?" he asks.
"But that was 'way down in North Carolina or somewhere, wasn't it?" says I.
"Perhaps," says Plummer. "But he isn't there now. He's here."
"Eh?" says I. "Where?"
"Prowling around my house," says Plummer. "That is, he was a few moments ago. My chauffeur saw him. So did I. He's on his way down towards the trolley line now."
"Why didn't you nab him?" I asks.
"Me?" says Plummer. "Why, he's a huge fellow, and no doubt a desperate man. I presume he was after me: I don't know."