“What envelope?” Harleston inquired pleasantly, never seeming to notice the menacing automatic.
“Come, no trifling!” Crenshaw snapped. “The envelope that the man from the apartment across the corridor just handed you.”
Harleston laughed. “You are obsessed with the notion that I have something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw.”
“The letter!” exclaimed Crenshaw.
“That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it’s not the one you seem to want.”
“I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you,” Crenshaw derided, advancing. “Get back, sir,—I’ll get the envelope myself.”
“My dear man,” Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door of the living-room, “I’ll let you see the envelope; I’ve not the slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I’m not dangerous.”
“You’re not so long as I’ve got the drop on you!” Crenshaw laughed sneeringly. “Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table—the far side, do you hear—while I examine the envelope yonder beside the roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I’ve seen them before.”
Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.
“All right, stay there, then!” said Crenshaw, and reached for the letter.