"Will you tell me what your precise business is in this hotel?" shot out Craig before Sherburne could recover from his surprise.
Sherburne flushed and flared—then became pale with rage.
"None of your damned insolence!" he ground out, then paused, cutting the next remark short as he gritted, "What do you mean? Shall I send a wax impression of that key—"
Kennedy had quickly flashed the cylinder of the telescribe before his eyes and instinctively Sherburne seemed to realize that with all his care in using typewriters and telephones, some kind of record of his extortion had been obtained.
For a moment he crumpled up. Then Kennedy seized him by the elbow, dragging him toward a side door opposite that at which our cab was standing.
"I mean," he muttered, "that I have the goods on you at last and you'll get the limit for blackmail through this little wax cylinder if you so much as show your face in New York again. I don't care where you go, but it must be by the first train. Understand?"
A moment later we returned to the cab, where it had pulled up in the shadow, away from the carriage entrance.
"You—you'll forgive me—for my—unjust suspicions—Agatha?" we heard a voice from the depths of the cab say.
Kennedy pulled me back in time not to interrupt a muffled "Yes."
Craig coughed.