"The manuscript is in my possession, Excellency," Peter said coolly.
"How did that come about, if I may ask the question?"
"You may. I stole it this morning from Lady Tarkington."
"What?"
Naniescu had given such a jump that he nearly turned himself out of his chair. The cigar fell from between his fingers, and the glass that contained the fine was upset and its contents spilt over the table. Even M. de Kervoisin had given a start; and his pale, expressionless face had flushed. Though the report of the post-mistress of Kis-Imre had given Naniescu an inkling that something unexpected had occurred, he certainly had not been prepared for this.
He looked up at Peter and frowned, trying to recover his dignity, which had been seriously jeopardized. Peter was laughing—very impolitely, thought His Excellency. But then these English have no manners.
"You'll forgive my smiling, won't you, sir?" asked Peter quite deferentially.
"Go on with your story," Naniescu retorted gruffly. "Never mind your manners."
"I can't very well mind them, sir," Peter rejoined, with utmost seriousness, "as I don't possess any. And I can't go on with my story because there is none to tell."
"You have got to tell me how you knew that Lady Tarkington had written certain newspaper articles; how you knew that I wanted them; how you came to—to steal them—the word is your own, my dear Monsieur Blakeney—and where they are at the present moment."