I was writing an important
telegram (I'll tell you about that later), when I heard this person ask
the concierge if a Miss Mary O'Malley was staying in the house. That
made me open my eyes--because he was of the lower _bourgeois_ class, and
hadn't the air of being--so to speak--in your set. It seemed as if 'twas
up to me to tackle him; so I did. I introduced myself as a friend of
Miss O'Malley's, travelling with her party. I explained that Miss
O'Malley was taking care of an old lady who'd been ill and was tired
after a long journey. I asked if he'd like to give a message. He said he
would. But first he began to explain who he was: an Alsatian by birth,
named Muller, corporal in an infantry regiment; been a prisoner in
Germany, I forget how long--taken wounded; leg amputated; and fitted
with artificial limb in a Boche hospital; just exchanged for a _grand
blesse_ Boche, and repatriated; been in Paris on important business,
apparently with the War Office--sounded more exciting than he looked!
After I'd prodded the chap tactfully, he came back to the subject of
the message: asked me if I knew Doctor Paul Herter. I said I did know
him. Herter mended up my sister after an air raid. I inquired politely
where Herter was, but Muller evaded that question. He led me to suppose
he'd seen Herter in Paris; but putting two and two together, I got a
different idea--_altogether_ different."
Julian paused on those words, and tried piercingly to read my thoughts.
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