I got it out at last and stroked it lovingly. "I can't start before I'm ready," I said. "Rather neat bit of wood—what? Chose it myself at Bow Street. I take a 13½-ounce racquet, you know."
"You seem," he said, "to have given up caring whether I am a German spy or not."
"Your mistake," I said; "I was merely gaining time to size you up properly. Better take your pince-nez off. Broken glass is such a nuisance, don't you think?"
He ignored the friendly hint. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I am partly German."
"Show me the German part," I said, gripping the corrugations of my truncheon more tightly. "I'm a little pressed for time."
"And partly French," he went on.
"That's rather awkward," I said.
"And I was born in Russia."
"Worse and worse," I said.
"And spent practically the first twenty years of my life in Italy."