“I had all sorts of adventures, beginning with the cab of the sleeping horse, three crushed roses, a bit of lace, and a letter,” he laughed; “and the adventures haven’t yet ended, and they grow more interesting as they progress.”
“They didn’t get the letter?” she asked quickly.
“They got nothing but the trouble of getting nothing,” he replied.
“Where is the letter now, Mr. Harleston—is it safe from them?”
There was a note of concern in her voice, and it puzzled him. What else did she know—or didn’t she know anything? Was it only his habit in diplomatic affairs to doubt everything that was not undoubtable.
“The letter,” he replied, “is with the expert of the State Department for translation.”
“What language is it in?” she demanded.
“Cipher language—and a particularly difficult cipher it is. Can you help us out, Mrs. Clephane?”
“I can’t, Mr. Harleston; I don’t know anything about ciphers. And I told you the whole truth when I said that I neither knew what the envelope contained nor its purpose. What disturbs me is how to explain to the French Ambassador the loss of the letter.”
“Tell him the exact truth,” said Harleston. “It would have been better possibly had you told him this morning.”