to show the Lieutenant our main works." 

 "Eh?" says I, gawpin'. For he knew very well there wasn't any such thing. 

 His left eyelid does a slow flutter. 

 "The main works, you understand," he repeats.  "And see that Lieutenant Fothergill is well taken care of. You will find the limousine waiting." 

 "Yes, sir," says I.  "I'm right behind you." 

 Course, if Mr. Robert had been there instead of off honeymoonin', this would have been his job. He'd have towed Cecil to his club, fed him Martinis and vintage stuff until he couldn't have told a 32-inch shell from an ashcan; handed him a smooth spiel about capacity, strain tests, shipping facilities, and so on, and dumped him at his hotel entirely satisfied that all was well, without having been off Fifth Avenue. 

 The best I can do, though, is to steer him into a flossy Broadway grill, shove him the wine-card with the menu, and tell him to go the limit. 

 He orders a pot of tea and a combination chop. 

 "Oh, say, have another guess," says I.  "What's the matter with that squab caserole and something in a silver ice-bucket?" 

 "Thank you, no," says he.  "I—er—my nerves, you know." 

 I couldn't deny that he looked it, either. Such a high-strung, jumpy party he is, always glancin' around suspicious. And that wanderin' store eye of his, scoutin' about on its own hook independent of the other, sort of adds to the general sleuthy effect. Kind of weird, too. 

 But I tries to forget that and get down to business. 

 "Surprisin' ain't it," says I, "how many of them shells can be turned out by—" 

 "S-s-s-sh!" says he, glancin' cautious at the omnibus-boy comin' to set up our table. 

 "Eh?" says I, after we've been supplied with rolls and sweet butter and ice water.  "Why the panic?" 

 "Spies!" he whispers husky. 

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