“I thought I heard your voice just now in the other room. Anyhow, this is an awful spooky place. If I stayed here alone half an hour, I'd fancy that the Lord Chancellor up there would step down in his robes, out of his frame, to keep me company.”
“Nonsense! When I'm busy, I often sit here and write until after midnight. It's so quiet!”
“D—mnably so!”
“Well, to go back to the papers. Somebody stole your bag, or you lost it. YOU stole—”
“The driver stole,” suggested Thatcher, so languidly that it could hardly be called an interruption.
“Well, we'll say the driver stole, and passed over to you as his accomplice, confederate, or receiver, certain papers belonging—”
“See here, Harlowe, I don't feel like joking in a ghostly law office after midnight. Here are your facts. Yuba Bill, the driver, stole a bag from this passenger, Wiles, or Smiles, and handed it to me to insure the return of my own. I found in it some papers concerning my case. There they are. Do with them what you like.”
Thatcher turned his eyes again abstractedly to the fire.
Harlowe took out the first paper:
“A-w, this seems to be a telegram. Yes, eh? 'Come to Washington at once.—Carmen de Haro.'”