“Thank you!” said he, with an amused smile.

“You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?” Crenshaw jeered.

“Someone else will do that,” Harleston replied.

“Someone else?” Crenshaw inflected.

“The police always search prisoners, I believe.”

“My God, you don’t intend to turn me over to the police?” Crenshaw exclaimed.

“Why not?” And when Crenshaw did not reply:  “Wherein are you different from any other felon taken red-handed—­except that you were taken twice in the same night, indeed?”

“Think of the scandal that will ensue!” Crenshaw cried.

“It won’t affect me!” Harleston laughed.

“Won’t affect you?” the other retorted.  “Maybe it won’t—­and maybe it will!”

“We shall try it,” Harleston remarked, and picked up the telephone.

Crenshaw watched him with a snarling sneer on his lips.

Harleston gave the private number of the police superintendent.  He himself answered.

“Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston.  I’d like to have a man report to me at the Collingwood at once.—­No; one will be enough, thank you.  Have him come right up to my apartment.  Good-bye!—­Now if you’ll excuse me for a brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I’ll get into some clothes—­while you think over the question whether you will explain or go to prison.”

“You will not dare!” Crenshaw laughed mockingly.  “Your State Department won’t stand for it a moment when they hear of it—­which they’ll do at ten o’clock, if I’m missing.”

“Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness,” Harleston called from the next room.  “It’s admirably planned, but not effective for your release.”

“Hell!” snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.

Presently Harleston appeared, dressed for the morning.

“Why not spread your cards on the table, Crenshaw?” he asked.  “I did stumble on the deserted cab this morning, wholly by accident; I was on my way here.  I did find in it a letter and these roses, and I brought them here.  I don’t know if you know what that letter contained—­I do.  It’s in cipher—­and will be turned over to the State Department for translation.  What I want to know is:  first—­what is the message of the letter, if you know; second—­who was the woman in the cab, and the facts of the episode; third—­what governments, if any, are concerned.”

“You’re amazingly moderate in your demands,” Crenshaw sarcasmed; “so moderate, indeed, that I would acquiesce at once but for the fact that I’m wholly ignorant of the contents of the letter.  The name of the woman, and the episode of the cab are none of your affair; nor do the names of parties, whether personal or government, concern you in the least.”

“Very well.  We’ll close up the cards and play the game.  The first thing in the game, as I said a moment ago, Crenshaw, is not to squeal when you are in a hole and losing.”

A knock came at the door.  Harleston crossed and swung it open.