“I guess I am,” the other admitted. “But,” he added, snapping his teeth together, “I’m not such a fool as to get caught, Monty, so pull yourself together, something’s bound to happen before long.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” sighed Monty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ON the way to her room Ethel Cartwright met Michael Harrington, a box of cigars in his hand, coming toward the head of the stairway.
“Whither away?” he demanded.
“To bed,” she returned. “The excitement’s been too much for me.”
“This box,” he said, lovingly caressing it, “contains what I think are the best that can be smoked.” He opened and showed what seemed to her cigars of a very large size. “I’m going to give the boys one apiece as a reward for bravery.” He laughed with glee. “And as Lambart is going to be one of the search party, I’m going to give him one, too. He’ll either leave at my temerity in offering him the same kind of weed his employer smokes, or else he’ll have it framed.”
“A search party?” she said. “What do you mean?”
“We’re going to beat the bushes for tramps,” he said. “I am directing operations from the balcony outside my room. The general in command,” he explained, “never gets on the firing-line in modern warfare.”
“Is Mr. Denby going?” she asked.