"A minute or two ago."
"Why did you not inform me?"
The tone was offensively domineering, thanks like enough to drink, nerves,
and hatred of his job and all things and persons pertaining to it.
The subaltern coloured. "He asked for water--I got it for him."
The commander stared churlishly, then addressed Lanyard: "How are you now?"
"Very faint," Lanyard said truthfully. But he would have lied had it been
otherwise with him. It was his book to make time in which to collect his
thoughts, concoct a bullet-proof story, plan against an adverse answer to
that wireless enquiry.
"Can you eat, drink a little champagne?"
Lanyard nodded slightly, adding a feeble "Please."
The Bavarian glanced significantly at his subaltern, who hastened to leave
them.
"Who are you? What is your name?"
"Dr. Paul Rodiek."
"Your employment?"
"Personal Intelligence Bureau--confidential agent."
"What were you doing on board the _Assyrian_?"
Lanyard mustered enough strength to look the man squarely in the eye.
"Pardon," he said coldly.
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