"It was about three when you telephoned to me--where were you then?" he
asked.
"At the Chateau. They were kind enough to release me about three
o'clock, and to send me back in a private car--at least, it wasn't a
taxi. Now, have you any other questions?"
"I think not, for the present."
"Have I satisfied you that my tale is true?"
"I am satisfied," he replied.
"Then you will give me the letter?" she said joyfully.
"And what of the roses?"
"I presented them to you last night."
"And of this handkerchief?" drawing it from his pocket.
She took the bit of lace, glanced at it, and handed it back.
"It is not mine," she replied. "Probably it's the other woman's." She
held out her hand, the most symmetrical hand Harleston had ever seen.
"My letter, please, Mr. Harleston."
"I no longer have the letter," said Harleston.
"Then why did you--" she exclaimed; "but you can lay your hand on it?"
"I can lay my hand on it," he smiled--"whenever you convince me, or I
ascertain, that the letter does not concern directly or indirectly the
diplomatic affairs of the United States. You forget that was the
concluding stipulation, Mrs. Clephane. Meanwhile the letter will not,
you may feel assured, fall into the possession of the party who
attempted to steal it from you.
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