"Good Lord
deliver us!" I blankly exclaimed. "What's that?"
The lieutenant, complying with my request, had unbound the wallet and
was flirting out its contents in fan-like fashion like a hand of cards.
I saw the imposing army of letters presented me by Dunny, who knows
everybody, headed by one to his old friend, the American ambassador to
France. So far, so good. But beneath them, with a sickening sense of
being in a bad dream, I beheld a thin sheaf of papers, neatly folded,
bound with red tape and sealed with bright red wax,--an object which, to
my certain knowledge, had no more business among my belongings than
the knives and plates that the conjurer snatches from the surrounding
atmosphere, or the hen which he evolves, clucking, from an erstwhile
empty sleeve.
Standing there with the impersonal calm of utter helplessness, I watched
the Britisher break the seal and unfold the sheets. They were thin and
they were many and they were covered with closely jotted hieroglyphics,
row upon row. But the sphinx-like quality of the contents afforded me
no gleam of hope.
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