whelp! What do you think to find?"

"I'm not thinking," Harleston smiled; "it isn't necessary to speculate
when one has all the stock, you know." Then his face hardened.

"One who comes into another's residence in the dead of night, revolver
in hand and violence in his intention, can expect no mercy and should
receive none. You're an ordinary burglar, Crenshaw and as such the law
will view you if I turn you over to the police. You think I found a
letter in an abandoned cab at 18th and Massachusetts Avenue early this
morning, and instead of coming like a respectable man and asking if I
have it and proving your property--do you hear, proving _your_
property--you play the burglar and highwayman. Evidently the letter
isn't yours, and you haven't any right or claim to it. I have been
injected into this matter; and having been injected I intend to
ascertain what can be found from your papers. Who you are; what your
object; who are concerned beside yourself; and anything else I can
discover. You see, you have the advantage of me; you know who I am, and,
I presume, my business; I know nothing of you, nor of your business, nor
what this all means; though I might guess some things. It's to obviate
guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence
as you may have with you."

Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely
sputtered--then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing
with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:

"Why do you take it so hard? It's all in the game--and you've lost.
You're a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or
croquet. This matter of--letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre;