"How long ago did you get them?"
"Fifteen years ago the eighth of August. That was before I joined the secret police. The owner had died and it took some clever work to gain possession of them."
"How did you know of their existence?"
"It was an accident." Kolinsky answered haltingly.
"And your candidate for the crown?" asked the Russian in a slight tone of derision.
"Is a Parisian artist. A good-natured fool." Kolinsky's tone of voice echoed the other's, whose hand was held out hesitatingly across the table for the papers. Deliberately Josef drew a bundle from his inside pocket and opened it before his chief.
The parchments were old and the Latin was in an ancient cramped hand while the impression of the seal was well-nigh obliterated. When sufficient time had elapsed for the Russian to make a complete mental note of their appearance, Josef drew the papers away from him, refolded them carefully and replaced them in his pocket.
"Kolinsky, you know what will happen should you desert us when once in Krovitch?"
Josef was standing near the door. He smiled with supreme indifference.
"Do I get the mission, Excellency?" was the only reply he vouchsafed.