"Well, we'll say the driver stole, and passed over to you as his
accomplice, confederate, or receiver, certain papers belonging--"
"See here, Harlowe, I don't feel like joking in a ghostly law office
after midnight. Here are your facts. Yuba Bill, the driver, stole a bag
from this passenger, Wiles, or Smiles, and handed it to me to insure the
return of my own. I found in it some papers concerning my case. There
they are. Do with them what you like."
Thatcher turned his eyes again abstractedly to the fire.
Harlowe took out the first paper:
"A-w, this seems to be a telegram. Yes, eh? 'Come to Washington at
once.--Carmen de Haro.'"
Thatcher started, blushed like a girl, and hurriedly reached for the
paper.
"Nonsense. That's a mistake. A dispatch I mislaid in the envelope."
"I see," said the lawyer dryly.
"I thought I had torn it up," continued Thatcher, after an awkward
pause. I regret to say that here that usually truthful man elaborated a
fiction. He had consulted it a dozen times a day on the journey, and it
was quite worn in its enfoldings.
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