He smiled--somewhat chillily, it must be admitted--and whispered, his
speaking voice being shut off by the garrote.
"The quicker you look, the sooner I shall, I hope, be released from this
rather uncomfortable position."
"Good eye!" said Crenshaw. "You're a reasonable man, Mr. Harleston,
it's a pleasure to do business with you."
"Proceed!" Harleston whispered. "I haven't the letter with me, as you
should know. Do I look so much like a novice? Furthermore, if I am not
mistaken, I told you that I was going direct to the State Department to
deliver the letter for translation so how could I have it now?"
"We're not debating, we're searching," Crenshaw sneered; "though it may
occur to you that a copy is as easy of translation as the original.
However, we will proceed with the inspection--the proof of the caviare
is in the roe of the sturgeon."
"Then I pray you open the fish at once," said Harleston. "I can't assist
you in my present attitude, so get along, Mr. Crenshaw, if you please.
You interrupted my dinner--I was just at the soup; and you may believe
me when I say that I'm a bit hungry."
"With your permission," Crenshaw replied, proceeding to go through
Harleston's pockets, and finding nothing but the usual--which he
replaced.
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