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Lanyard's tone changed to one of command. "That pen, monsieur!" Blensop's hand faltered to his waistcoat pocket, hesitated, withdrew, and feebly extended the pen. "I think you are the devil," he stammered in an under-tone "the devil himself!" Deftly unscrewing the pen-point, Lanyard inverted the barrel above the desk. The cylinder of paper dropped out.
Everything rested with Blensop's choice, which of the two windows he would elect first to close. A right-handed man, he turned, as Lanyard had foreseen, to the right, and momentarily disappeared in the recess of the farther window.
But he reckoned without Blensop's avarice, there; he showed Blensop too plainly the way to profit through betraying both parties to a bargain; Blensop saw no reason why he should not play the game that Ekstrom played. So he stole it for himself, to sell to Germany, but being a poor, witless fool, lacking Ekstrom's dash and audacity, was foredoomed to failure and exposure."
There was neither wit nor guess-work in that business; once I had seen Blensop's panic over the fancied loss of his pen, the rest was knowledge. I saw him and Ekstrom together last night skulking in those windows, I watched them; and though in my denseness I didn't understand, I saw him write upon that pad, tear off and give the sheet to Ekstrom.
"George would insist on hurrying home," the young wife complained. "Frightfully tiresome. We were so comfy at the Ritz, too...." "The Crystal Room?" Dissembled envy poisoned Blensop's accents. "Frightfully interestin' everybody was there. I did so want to dance missed you, Arthur." "I say, you didn't, did you, really?" "Poor Mr. Blensop!" Mrs. Arden interjected with just a hint of malice.
Discountenanced by the admiration glowing in her eyes, Lanyard stood fumbling with the disjointed members of Blensop's pen. "Do not give me too much credit," he depreciated: "anybody acquainted with that roll of paper could have guessed that an empty fountain pen would furnish an ideal place of concealment for it.
With professional dexterity Lanyard en passant dropped a hand over the young man's shoulder and lightly lifted the pen from its place in the pocket of Blensop's waistcoat; the even tempo of his step unbroken, he tossed it toward the safe, where it fell without sound upon a heavy Persian rug. "Yes about Howson," the musical accents continued, "Colonel Stanistreet is most solicitous...."
Was there a hint of irony in Blensop's employment of that style? Lanyard half fancied there was, but did not linger to analyse the impression. Already the secretary had opened the side door. In a bound Lanyard cleared the stoop, then ran back to the door in the wall.
"With pleasure," Lanyard assured him, his gravity unbroken. A doubt clouded Mr. Blensop's bright eyes, but its transit was instantaneous. He turned forthwith to join the iron-gray man before the portrait which concealed the safe. "And now, Mr. Stone," said Mr. Blensop, with indulgence. "Well, sir," said Mr.
The interruption was Blensop's in a voice strangely out of tune. Stanistreet wheeled sharply upon him. "What the deuce !" he snapped. By every indication the secretary had suffered the most severe shock of his experience. His face was ghastly, his eyes vacant; his knees shook beneath him; one hand pressed convulsively the bosom of his waistcoat.
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