“Then why the stuffiness?” asked King. “Why am I talked to at the end of a tube, so to speak?”
“You're under arrest!” said Courtenay.
“The deuce I am!”
“I'm taking care of you myself to obviate the necessity of putting a sentry on guard over you.”
“Good of you, I'm sure. What's it all about?”
“I don't mind telling you, but I'd rather you'd wait. The minute you were sighted word was wired down to headquarters, and the general himself will be up here by train any minute.”
“Very well,” said King. “Got a cigar? Got a black one? Blacker the better!”
He was out of his bath and remembered that minute that he had not smoked a cigar since leaving India. Naked, shaved, with some of the stain removed, he did not look like a man in trouble as he filled his lungs with the saltpeterish smoke of a fat Trichinopoli.
And then the general came and did not wait for King to get dressed but burst into the bathroom and shook hands with him while he was still naked and asked ten questions (like a gatling gun) while King was getting on his trousers, divining each answer after the third word and waving the rest aside.
“And why am I arrested, sir?” asked King the moment he could slip the question in edgewise.