“And that you certainly shall not!”
Salt was like the everlasting hills. “Only the envelope, my Lord. The superscription is all I need to see.”
After a long ten-seconds’ hesitation Lord Herbert drew a letter from his breast-pocket and held it close to the Superintendent’s face. Salt peered.
“Hm. Is that it? Seems to be. Stamp uncancelled. To the Bangor and Newcastle Corporation, eh? 12 Gate Street, London, E. C. Very innocent, I’m sure, my Lord. Thank you.”
I saw the quick purple flash into the Baron’s face when Salt read aloud the words intended only for his eye. “I consider this an impertinence, sir.”
“To be called things is all in my day’s work, my Lord,” responded Salt, and turning to Pendleton, he said, “You ought to open a little Post Office here.”
“What on earth for?”
“For surreptitious mail.”
“Bangor and Newcastle Corporation,” I could not help repeating puzzledly, half-aloud, I fear. “What on earth connection can there be between little Bangor with its agriculture and Druid Circle, and the coal and battleships of Newcastle-on-Tyne?”
Ludlow said nothing, but I observed in his eye and in the hook of his bloodless lip a sublime contempt for my ignorance.