Sitting apart Lanagan unfastened the black sealskin wallet and drew out a single sheet of paper, encased in a protection of oiled skin. There were written on the paper in a bold, strong hand, an even dozen words; words that sent his breath whistling through his teeth. It was in English, plain, clear, and signed by a name that gave even the imperturbable Lanagan a mighty start.
“Undoubtedly,” mused Lanagan, “they either have a system believed infallible, or they are mighty reckless of State secrets—and they are not reckless. Therefore the system has slipped a cog, and I am the anointed bearer of the message of His Serene Majesty, Nicholas. I appear to be on the knees of the gods,” he went on, as he wandered the streets, perplexed. “It’s possible, barely possible, that I am tangled in some monumental hoax. But I don’t believe it. If I don’t miss my guess I will be giving the austere Mr. Sampson, damned of all men of my tribe, the biggest exclusive his sweat-shop paper has turned out in this generation. But—I need more coincidences. I am plainly stumped.”
He had stopped by Lotta’s Fountain where the traffic patrolman was endeavouring to untangle a jam of trucks and automobiles.
Out of the very air, as though in wierd solution to his perplexity, it came again:
Lanagan wheeled to find the voice. He had thought he must turn directly upon the man. There was no one near him save the occupant of a limousine, two feet away. The passenger was apparently engrossed in the evening paper. The window, though, was open. Lanagan watched him covertly from the corner of his eye.
“Humph! This is getting interesting. Here am I, a live newspaper sprout, in the dead centre of a bustling and work-a-day American city, caught as sure as the sun shines, in the mysteries of a diplomatic maze between two great nations, and probably three, that is as twisted as a mediæval intrigue. At this moment, the whereabouts of little me and my message, are probably of as much importance as the comings and goings of the Czar, the Mikado, or the First Gentleman himself. But the next gay cat that tries any scoraying on me, will get the third degree right in Fogarty’s back room.”
The limousine, the traffic jam relieved, pulled slowly ahead, but Lanagan could have sworn that the benign gentleman within, just before it did, turned fully upon him with a scrutiny of deliberate coolness. It was a casual thing, such as might have happened to anyone; but it appeared to Lanagan that there was a look of secret understanding in the other’s eyes, as they dropped twice to the stick-pin and returned to Lanagan’s face, as though in inquiry. Lanagan took the number of the car, 89,776, and then returned to headquarters. He wanted to see from the police register to whom machine 89,776 belonged.
When he ran through the pages to the number, the ragtime air he was whistling—very incorrectly—quickened in tempo.
“89,776—owner—Boris Koshloff—2224 Pacific Avenue, San Francisco.”