He smiled—somewhat chillily, it must be admitted—and whispered, his speaking voice being shut off by the garrote.
“The quicker you look, the sooner I shall, I hope, be released from this rather uncomfortable position.”
“Good eye!” said Crenshaw. “You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Harleston, it’s a pleasure to do business with you.”
“Proceed!” Harleston whispered. “I haven’t the letter with me, as you should know. Do I look so much like a novice? Furthermore, if I am not mistaken, I told you that I was going direct to the State Department to deliver the letter for translation so how could I have it now?”
“We’re not debating, we’re searching,” Crenshaw sneered; “though it may occur to you that a copy is as easy of translation as the original. However, we will proceed with the inspection—the proof of the caviare is in the roe of the sturgeon.”
“Then I pray you open the fish at once,” said Harleston. “I can’t assist you in my present attitude, so get along, Mr. Crenshaw, if you please. You interrupted my dinner—I was just at the soup; and you may believe me when I say that I’m a bit hungry.”
“With your permission,” Crenshaw replied, proceeding to go through Harleston’s pockets, and finding nothing but the usual—which he replaced.
He came last to the breast-pocket of the coat; in it were the wallet and one letter—the letter that had brought Harleston here.
“It caught you!” Crenshaw smiled. “There’s no bait like a pretty woman!”
Harleston raised his eyebrows and shrugged his answer.