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; it’s not in your class.”

“We haven’t reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend,” gritted Crenshaw.  “My turn will come, never fear.”

“A far day, monsieur, a far day!” said Harleston lightly.  “Meanwhile, with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your pockets.  First, your pocketbook.”

He unbuttoned the other’s coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.

“Attend, please,” said he, “so you can see that I replace every article.”

Crenshaw’s only answer was a contemptuous shrug.

A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the pocketbook.

“You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself,” Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.

Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in Crenshaw’s pocket.

“It’s unwise to carry so much money about you,” he remarked; “it induces spending, as well as provokes attack.”

“What’s that to you?” replied Crenshaw angrily.

“Nothing whatever—­it’s merely a word of advice to one who seems to need it.  Now for the other pockets.”

The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys—­and in the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to it.

Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note—­and caught a sly look in his eyes.

“Something doing, Crenshaw?” he queried.

Another shrug was Crenshaw’s answer—­and the sly look grew into a sly smile.

The note, apparently in a woman’s handwriting, was in French, and contained five words and an initial: 

  A l’aube du jour. 
  M.

Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and to mark the little eccentricities of style.  Then he folded it and put it in Crenshaw’s outside pocket.