"I'm not a burglar," Crenshaw snapped.

"The burden is on you to prove it, my friend!" Harleston smiled.
"However, it's no matter. Just drop cards before you leave so that I can
return your call. Once more, good-night!"

"I'm off," said Marston. "Come along, Crenshaw, you can't do anything
more here, and we'll all forget and forgive and start fresh in the
morning."

"Start?" cried Crenshaw? "what for--home? I tell you the letter is
here--he took it, didn't he? He was at the cab."

"Will you also give your word that you didn't take a letter from the
cab?" Crenshaw demanded, turning upon Harleston.

"I'll give you nothing since you've asked me in that manner," Harleston
replied sharply; "unless you want this." His hand came from under the
sheet, and Crenshaw was looking into a levelled 38. Harleston had a pair
of them.

"Beat it, my man!" Harleston snapped. "None of you are of much success
as burglars; you're not familiar with the trade. You're novices, rank
novices. Also myself. I'll give you until I count five, Crenshaw, to
make your adieux. One ... two ... No need for you two to hurry away--the
time limit applies only to Mr. Crenshaw."

"It's quite time we were going, Mr. Harleston," Marston answered.
"Good-night, sir--and pleasant dreams. Come on, Crenshaw."