“Where's the blouse?” he asked.
“It was covered with blood,” said Peter. “They took it away.”
“What branch of the service?”
Peter was not sure—infantry possibly. He didn't care for the stranger's manner, nor to have this particular gunner of the rapid-fire pieces hurried to the field unhealed. The orderly bent suddenly, whispering.
“She told me to tell you that she wants to come, but that it isn't safe—”
...Moritz Abel looking for an interpreter would have been interested now; also the Old Man of The States. The stranger had spoken leisurely. Peter's temptation was conquered before he was half through.
“Are you sure you were to give me some message?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But I wasn't expecting anyone.”
The other regarded him keenly. Peter was well trained for that. An officer appeared in the doorway and beckoned the orderly.