Bransome bowed. Perhaps, after all, the man was not a fool!
“I have a good many friends round about Washington,” Mr. Coulson continued, “and sometimes, when they know I am coming across, one or the other of them finds it convenient to hand me a letter. It isn’t the postage stamp that worries them,” he added with a little laugh, “but they sort of feel that anything committed to me is fairly safe to reach its right destination.”
“Without disputing that fact for one moment, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward remarked, “I might also suggest that the ordinary mail service between our countries has reached a marvellous degree of perfection.”
“The Post Office,” Mr. Coulson continued meditatively, “is a great institution, both on your side and ours, but a letter posted in Washington has to go through a good many hands before it is delivered in London.”
Sir Edward smiled.
“It is a fact, sir,” he said, “which the various Governments of Europe have realized for many years, in connection with the exchange of communications one with the other. Your own great country, as it grows and expands, becomes, of necessity, more in touch with our methods. Did I understand that you have a letter for me, Mr. Coulson?”
Mr. Coulson produced it.
“Friend of mine you may have heard of,” he said, “asked me to leave this with you. I am catching the Princess Cecilia from Southampton tomorrow. I thought, perhaps, if I waited an hour or so, I might take the answer back with me.”
“It is getting late, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward reminded him, glancing at the clock.
Mr. Coulson smiled.