"We have with us this morning," he goes on, "one Lieutenant Cecil
Fothergill, just arrived from London. Perhaps you saw him as he was
shown in half an hour or so ago?"

"The solemn-lookup gink with the long face, one wanderin' eye, and the
square-set shoulders?" says I. "Him in the light tan ridin'-breeches and
the black cutaway?"

"Precisely," says Mr. Ellins.

"Huh!" says I. "Army officer? I had him listed as a rail-bird from the
Horse Show."

"He presents credentials signed by General Kitchener," says Old Hickory.
"He's looking up munition contracts. Not the financial end. Nor is he
an artillery expert. Just exactly what he is here for I've failed to
discover, and I am too busy to bother with him."

"I get you," says I. "You want him shunted."

Old Hickory nods.

"Quite delicately, however," he goes on.

"The Lieutenant seems to have something on his mind--something heavy. I
infer that he wishes to do a little inspecting."

"Oh!" says I.