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The Flying Legion by George Allan England
page 146 of 477 (30%)
"Major," said the Master, "pardon me, but I wish to speak to
our--guest, alone. You understand."

The major's glance conveyed a world of indignant protest, but he
obeyed in silence. When he had withdrawn into the smoke-room, where
a brooding pipe would ill divert his mind from various wild
speculations, the Master slid open his own cabin door, and extended a
hand of welcome toward it.

"_Après vous, monsieur!_" said he.

The A.C.B. officer entered, his vigorous, compact figure alive with
energy, intelligence. The Master followed, slid the door shut and
motioned to a chair beside the desk. This chair, of metal, was itself
placed upon a metal plate. The plate was new. At our last sight of the
cabin, it had not been there.

Taking off goggles and gauntlets, and throwing open his sheepskin
jacket, the Frenchman sat down. The Master also plate was new. At our
last sight of the cabin, it had not been there.

Taking off goggles and gauntlets, and throwing open his sheepskin
jacket, the Frenchman sat down. The Master also sat down at the desk.
A brief silence, more pregnant than any speech, followed. Each man
narrowly appraised the other. Then said the newcomer, still in that
admirable French of his:

"You understand, of course, _n'est-ce pas?_ that it is useless to
offer any resistance to the authority of the A.C.B."

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