Harleston laughed. "You are obsessed with the notion that I have
something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw."

"_The letter!_" exclaimed Crenshaw.

"That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it's not the one you seem to
want."

"I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you," Crenshaw derided,
advancing. "Get back, sir,--I'll get the envelope myself."

"My dear man," Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door
of the living-room, "I'll let you see the envelope; I've not the
slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I'm not dangerous."

"You're not so long as I've got the drop on you!" Crenshaw laughed
sneeringly. "Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table--the
far side, do you hear--while I examine the envelope yonder beside the
roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I've seen them
before."

Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.

"All right, stay there, then!" said Crenshaw, and reached for the
letter.

As he did so, Harleston's slippered foot shot out and drove hard into
the other's stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The
next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.