“At any rate I can trust you,” he said. “Telfik Bey is not a merchant. He is a secret, confidential agent of the Turkish government. He came over to New York from Washington in spite of warnings that he would be killed.”
“You’re certain he was killed?”
“I only wish I could believe anything else.”
“Shot?”
“The coroner and a physician whom I sent can find no trace of a wound.”
“What do they say?”
“Apoplexy.”
“The refuge of the mystified medico. It doesn’t satisfy you?”
“It won’t satisfy the State Department.”
“And possibly not the newspapers, eventually.”