It's to obviate
guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence
as you may have with you."
Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely
sputtered--then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing
with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:
"Why do you take it so hard? It's all in the game--and you've lost.
You're a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or
croquet. This matter of--letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre;
it's not in your class."
"We haven't reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend," gritted
Crenshaw. "My turn will come, never fear."
"A far day, monsieur, a far day!" said Harleston lightly. "Meanwhile,
with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your
pockets. First, your pocketbook."
He unbuttoned the other's coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.
"Attend, please," said he, "so you can see that I replace every
article."
Crenshaw's only answer was a contemptuous shrug.
A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting
cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the
pocketbook.
"You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,"
Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.
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