"Go on, you're kidding!" said Schnitzel. He was drawn between believing
I was deeply impressed and with fear that I was mocking him.
"On the contrary," I protested, "I don't feel quite safe myself. Seeing
me with you they may think I have papers around _my_ neck."
"They wouldn't look at you," Schnitzel reassured me. "They know you're
just an amateur. But, as you say, with me, it's different. I _got_ to be
careful. Now, you mightn't believe it, but I never go near my uncle nor
none of my friends that live where I used to hang out. If I did, the
other spies would get on my track. I suppose," he went on grandly, "I
never go out in New York but that at least two spies are trailing me.
But I know how to throw them off. I live 'way down town in a little
hotel you never heard of. You never catch me dining at Sherry's nor the
Waldorf. And you never met me out socially, did you, now?"
I confessed I had not.
"And then, I always live under an assumed name."
"Like 'Jones'?" I suggested.
"Well, sometimes 'Jones,'" he admitted.
"To me," I said, "'Jones' lacks imagination. It's the sort of name you
give when you're arrested for exceeding the speed limit.
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