His companion treated the suggestion with scant courtesy.

"You will do nothing of the sort," was his almost fierce objection.
"We've got to wait right here until Chief of Police Downs comes along.
There's something crooked about this business, something I don't
understand, and the sooner we get to the bottom of it, the better."

The Englishman pacified himself with a whisky and soda which a waiter
had just brought in. He added several lumps of ice and drained the
contents of the tumbler with a little murmur of appreciation.

"It will be confoundedly annoying," he admitted quietly, "if we've had
all this journey for nothing."

Hobson moistened his dry lips with his tongue. The whisky and soda and
the great bucket of ice stood temptingly at his elbow, but he appeared
to ignore their existence. He was a man of ample build, with a big,
clean-shaven face, a square jaw and deep-set eyes, a man devoted to
and wholly engrossed by his work.

"See here, Crawshay," he exclaimed, "if that dispatch was a fake, if
we've been brought here on a fool's errand, they haven't done it for
nothing. If they've brought it off against us, you mark my words,
we're left--we're bamboozled--we're a couple of lost loons! There's
nothing left for us but to sell candy to small boys or find a job on
a farm."

"You're such a pessimist," the Englishman yawned.

"Pessimist!" was the angry retort. "I'll just ask you one question, my