"Just sit still, please," he said, in a perfectly cold voice. And he
turned and locked the door into the hall. I was absolutely unable to
speak. I tried once, but my tongue hit the roof of my mouth like the
clapper of a bell.
"Now," he said, when he had turned around. "I wish you would tell me
some good reason why I should not hand you over to the Police."
"Oh, please don't!" I said.
"That's eloquent. But not a reason. I'll sit down and give you a little
time. I take it, you did not expect to find me here."
"I'm in the wrong apartment. That's all," I said. "Maybe you'll think
that's an excuse and not a reason. I can't help it if you do."
"Well," he said, "that explains some things. It's pretty well known, I
fancy, that I have little worth stealing, except my good name."
"I was not stealing," I replied in a sulky manner.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "It IS an ugly word. We will strike it
from the record. Would you mind telling me whose apartment you intended
to--er--investigate? If this is the wrong one, you know."
"I was looking for a Letter."
"Letters, letters!" he said. "When will you women learn not to write
letters. Although"--he looked at me closely--"you look rather young for
that sort of thing." He sighed. "It's born in you, I daresay," he said.
Well, for all his patronizing ways, he was not very old himself.
"Of course," he said, "if you are telling the truth--and it sounds
fishy, I must say--it's hardly a Police matter, is it? It's rather one
for diplomasy.
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