“Think of the scandal that will ensue!” Crenshaw cried.
“It won’t affect me!” Harleston laughed.
“Won’t affect you?” the other retorted. “Maybe it won’t—and maybe it will!”
“We shall try it,” Harleston remarked, and picked up the telephone.
Crenshaw watched him with a snarling sneer on his lips.
Harleston gave the private number of the police superintendent. He himself answered.
“Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston. I’d like to have a man report to me at the Collingwood at once.—No; one will be enough, thank you. Have him come right up to my apartment. Good-bye!—Now if you’ll excuse me for a brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I’ll get into some clothes—while you think over the question whether you will explain or go to prison.”
“You will not dare!” Crenshaw laughed mockingly. “Your State Department won’t stand for it a moment when they hear of it—which they’ll do at ten o’clock, if I’m missing.”
“Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness,” Harleston called from the next room. “It’s admirably planned, but not effective for your release.”
“Hell!” snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.