"You shouldn't carry valuables in a place like this," the man continued, "that is to say, not money."
"How about letters, eh, Baggin? Letters—and plans? They are sometimes worth money to the right party."
His companion frowned. "Nothing that I carry is worth money," he returned shortly. "I flatter myself that not a man in the world, no, not even you, Grayson," there was a slight sneer in his voice, "could make head or tail of my memoranda. And yet, there it is, the entire proposition, written down, in black and white. But it's all in code, and I carry the code in my head."
"I'm sincerely glad to hear it," replied the other. He looked about him nervously. "I—have a feeling that we oughtn't to have come here."
"You make me tired," said Baggin wearily.
"We oughtn't be seen together," persisted the other. "All sorts of people are here. Men from the city, perhaps. Suppose I should be recognised—my picture was in all the papers."
"Don't be a fool," said Baggin roughly. "And for Heaven's sake, don't peer around in that silly fashion. Let me give you an epigram of Poltavo's. 'It is the observer who is always observed.' Rather neat, eh?"
"I wish he were in with us on this thing."
"I don't," retorted Baggin. "So that's settled. He's done his work, and that's the end of him."
"I doubt it," returned the other thoughtfully. "And, frankly, if the matter comes up again, I shall vote to admit him."