He was aroused by a vigorous pounding on the corridor door. It was seven-thirty o’clock. He yawned and responded to the summons—which grew more insistent with every pound.
It was Stuart—the envelope and the flowers in his hand.
“Scarcely heard your gentle tap,” Harleston remarked. “Why don’t you knock like a man?”
“Here’s your damn bouquet, also your envelope,” said Stuart, “You probably don’t recall that you left them with me about two this morning. I do.”
“I’m mighty much obliged, old man,” Harleston responded. “You did me a great service by taking them—I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Hump!” grunted Stuart. “I hope you’ll come around to tell me at a more seasonable hour. So long!”
Harleston closed the door, and was half-way across the living-room when there came another knock.
Tossing the envelope and the faded roses on a nearby table, he stepped back and swung open the door.
Instantly, a revolver was shoved into his face, and Crenshaw sprang into the hall and closed the door.
“I thought as much!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take that envelope, my friend, and be quick about it.”