“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.

It was not for long, however.  Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed; and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the fingers sent the automatic flying.

“If it were not for spoiling the devil’s handiwork, my fine friend, I’d smash your face,” Harleston remarked.

“Smash it!” the other panted.  “I’ll promise—­to smash yours—­at the first opportunity.”

“Which latter smashing won’t be until some years later,” Harleston retorted, as he turned Crenshaw over.  Bearing on him with all his weight, he loosed his own pajama-cord and tied the man’s hands behind him.  Next he kicked off his pajama trousers, and with them bound Crenshaw’s ankles.  Then he dragged him to a chair and plunked him into it, securing him there by a strap.

“It’s scarcely necessary to gag you,” he remarked pleasantly.  “In your case, an outcry would be embarrassing only to yourself.”

“What do you intend to do with me?” Crenshaw demanded.

“Ultimately, you mean.  I have not decided.  It may depend on what I find.”

“Find?”

Harleston nodded.  “In your pockets.”

“You dog!” Crenshaw burst out, straining at his bonds.  “You miserable 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