Bullard swung round from his desk.
"Hullo!" he cried genially. "Got back! Beastly weather, isn't it? Just returned from Paris an hour ago. Sit down and warm yourself."
"Thanks, Mr. Bullard." Marvel took a chair at the fire and proceeded to chafe his hands. "Paris, did you say? Coldish there, I suppose?"
"Felt like snow this morning. By the way, I didn't get your note till my arrival here to-night."
Marvel began to feel that things were shaping nicely. "I sent it as soon as I could, Mr. Bullard. Awful weather up there last night—something ghastly. Wouldn't take on the job again for ten, times the money."
"Well, it's over, and I take it that you were quite successful."
"Oh, that part of it was easy, Mr. Bullard."
"Good!" With that Mr. Bullard's geniality vanished. "I say, where's the
Green Box?"
Mr. Marvel grinned pleasantly. "Always in such a hurry, Mr. Bullard! But don't be alarmed; the Green Box is all right—very much all right."
"Look here, Marvel. I'm not in the humour for any humbug. I want that box—now!"