“Damn the ink!” swore the spy. “And damn you for a Tom o' Bedlam! I ask you again—what d'ye mean, giving me this rubbish?”
“You asked me to turn out my pockets.”
“I asked you for the letter ye have brought Lord Ostermore.”
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Caryll, and eyed the other sympathetically. “I am sorry to disappoint you. But, then, you assumed too much when you assumed that I had such a letter. I have obliged you to the fullest extent in my power. I do not think you show a becoming gratitude.”
Mr. Green eyed him blankly a moment; then exploded. “Ecod, sir! You are cool.”
“It is a condition we do not appear to share.”
“D'ye say ye've brought his lordship no letter from France?” thundered the spy. “What else ha' ye come to England for?”
“To study manners, sir,” said Mr. Caryll, bowing.
That was the last drop in the cup of Mr. Green's endurance. He waved his men towards the gentleman from France. “Find it,” he bade them shortly.
Mr. Caryll drew himself up with a great dignity, and waved the bailiffs back, his white face set, an unpleasant glimmer in his eyes. “A moment!” he cried. “You have no authority to go to such extremes. I make no objection to being searched; but every objection to being soiled, and I'll not have the fingers of these scavengers about my person.”