Strolling to the window, he looked out upon the sunlit river, and there was peace and comfort in his heart, for overnight the prisoner Mills had decided to tell all he knew about the Frogs on the promise of a free pardon and a passage to Canada. And Mills knew more than he had, as yet, told.
“I can give you a line to Number 7 that will put him into your hands,” his note had run.
Number Seven! Elk caught a long breath. No. 7 was the hub on which the wheel turned.
He rubbed his hands cheerfully, for it seemed that the mystery of the Frog was at last to be solved. Perhaps “the line” would lead to the missing treaty—and at the thought of the lost document Elk’s face clouded. Two ministers, a great state department and innumerable under-secretaries spent their time in writing frantic notes of inquiry to headquarters concerning Lord Farmley’s loss.
“They want miracles,” said Elk, and wondered if the day would produce one.
He went to his overcoat pocket to find a cigar, and his hand touched a thick roll of papers. He pulled them out and threw them upon the desk, and as he did so the first words on the first sheet caught his eye.
“By the King’s Most Excellent Majesty in Council——”
Elk tried to yell, but his voice failed him, and then he snatched up the paper from the desk and turned the leaves with trembling hands.
It was the lost treaty!
Elk held the precious document in his hand, and his mind went back quickly over the night’s adventures. When had he taken off his top-coat? When had he last put his hand in his pocket? He had taken off the coat at Heron’s Club, and he could not remember having used the pockets since. It was a light coat that he either carried or wore, summer or winter. He had brought it to the office that morning on his arm.