“For heaven’s sake, Crenshaw,” said Sparrow, “don’t let us get to shooting here! If you wing me, Marston will wing you, and we’ll only stir up a mess for ourselves.”
“Then hand over the letter,” said Crenshaw
“Do you fancy we would be hunting it if we had it?”
“I don’t fancy—produce the goods!”
“We haven’t the goods,” Marston shrugged. “We can’t find it.”
Sparrow shook his head curtly.
“It’s the truth,” Harleston interjected. “They haven’t found the goods for the very good reason that the goods are not here. Plunge in and aid in the search; I wish you would; it will relieve me of your triple intrusion in one third less time. I’m becoming very tired of it all; it has lost its novelty. I prefer to sleep.”
“I want the letter!” Crenshaw exclaimed.
“I assumed as much from the vigour of your quest,” Harleston shrugged. “The difficulty is that I haven’t the letter. Neither is it in my apartment. But you’ll facilitate the search if you’ll depress your respective cannon from the angle of each other’s anatomy and get to work. As I remarked before, I’m anxious to compose myself for sleep. You can hold your little dispute later on the sidewalk, or in jail, or wherever is most convenient.”
“Mr. Harleston,” said Marston, “do you give us your word that the letter is not in your apartment?”