“You’re very welcome to look elsewhere and anywhere,” Harleston interjected. “I’ll trust you not to pry into matters other than the letter. By the way, whose was the letter?”
“His Majesty of Abyssinia!” was the answer.
“Taken by wireless, I presume.”
“Exactly!”
“Then, why so much bother, my friend?” Harleston asked. “If you do not find it, you can get others by the same quick route.”
“The King of Abyssinia never duplicates a letter.”
“When,” supplemented Harleston, “it has been carelessly lost in a cab.”
“Just so. Therefore—”
“I repeat that I have not got the articles,” said Harleston, a bit wearily, “nor are they in my apartment. You have been misinformed. I find I am getting drowsy—this thing is not as absorbing as I had thought it would be. With your permission I’ll drop off to sleep; you’re welcome to continue the search. Make yourselves perfectly at home, sirs.” He lay back and drew up the sheet. “Just pull the door shut when you depart, please,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“You’re a queer chap,” remarked Sparrow, pausing in his search and surveying Harleston with a puzzled smile. “One would suppose you’re used to receiving interruptions at such hours for such purposes.”