"Not a bad suggestion." He pulled out a time-table. "What do you say, Grindley, to doing without another night in that beast of an inn?"
Grindley was at his elbow, holding the orange-brown envelope, superscription uppermost. "Schwarzenberg," all three read. Singleton dropped his time-table and laid hold of the envelope.
"No, you'd tear it." Grindley's thick soft thumb was already gently inserted under the flap. He persuaded it. He put the envelope in his side pocket and opened the paper slip. As the two secret-service men closed together to read the message, Napier made a movement for which he derided himself, an instinctive drawing out of range, as though the telegram were the private property of these men.
Singleton dropped his end of the paper with an impatient, "Just exactly as interesting as usual." He gathered Miss Greta's letters in a pile and opened the brown case to receive them. The case was now so full that, in order to include the dictionary abandoned for the moment by Grindley, Singleton opened the fat volume in the middle, and spatchcocked it face down on the journal and the jewel boxes. Even so, the case refused to shut. Singleton turned La Motte out.
"What's the good of it!"
"M'm." The sound Grindley made reminded one of a child mouthing a sweet. But his vacant eyes never left the telegram.
"You haven't told me,"—with difficulty Napier controlled his impatience—"I gather"—he went on—"that you know where to lay your hand on Miss von Schwarzenberg?"
"Tea telephoned for by Mr. Grant, Golden Lion, Newton Hackett," Singleton answered, still readjusting the contents of the case.
"Shall I see if I can get her on the telephone?"
Singleton hesitated. Over his shoulder he looked round at Napier with the faintest possible trace of a smile.