Trembling with excitement Casteno seized the letter that had been brought for him and tore open the envelope, on the flap of which was embossed in red the Royal Arms, with the words “Foreign Office” let into the outer circle. Then he unfolded the note, which, in response to a gesture from him, I read over his shoulder.
“Foreign Office, Whitehall, SW.
“Sir,—I am desired by His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to acknowledge your letter of this day’s date and to inform you that the subject-matter thereof has no connection with him in either a personal or official capacity.
“I have the honour to remain, Sir, Your most obedient servant, Reginald Wyke, Assistant Secretary.
“To José Zouche Casteno, The Police Station, Bow Street, WC.”
“What a terrible snub,” I cried, pushing the tray on to the wooden bedstead. “What can it mean?”
“They’ve done us, that’s all,” panted Casteno, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Either they’ve got hold of the manuscripts when they searched St. Bruno’s, or we’ve been sold in some fashion we least expect.”
“Is it Cooper-Nassington?” I hazarded. “Remember, I have had no reply to my telegram!”
“I don’t know,” said the Spaniard, gloomily beginning to pace up and down the cell. “We must wait, I suppose, before we can see. At present we’ve played our cards to the bitter end, and we’ve got nowhere.”
“How about the king?” I queried nervously.