"I--a spirit!"
"Exactly. But there is no time for questions. Afterwards--not now.
Five hours, and we must--"
Someone came to the door. It was Jerome. At the sight of Watson he
stopped, clutching the stub of his cigar between his teeth. His
grey eyes took in the other's form from head to shoe leather.
"Back?" he inquired. "What did you find out, Watson? They must
have fed you well over yonder!"
And Jerome pointed toward the ceiling with his thumb. It wasn't in
his dour nature to give way to enthusiasm; this was merely his
manner of welcome. Watson smiled.
"The eats were all right, Jerome, but not all the company. You're
just the man I want. We have little time; none to spare for talk.
Are you in touch with Bertha Holcomb?"
The detective nodded.
Watson took the chair that Fenton had so strangely vacated and
reached for paper and pencil. Once or twice he stopped to draw a
line, but mostly he was calculating. He referred constantly to a
paper he took from his pocket. When he was through he spread his
palm over what he had written.
"Jerome!"
"Yes."
"You are no longer connected with headquarters, I presume. But--
can you get men?"
"If need be."
"You will need them!" Just then Watson noticed the uniform of
General Hume. "Jerome, can you give this officer a bodyguard?"
It was both unusual and lightning-sudden. Nevertheless, there was
something in Watson's manner that called for no challenge;
something that would have brooked no refusal.
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