"
Sylvester did not smile. "It is," he answered. "Come."
He led the way into the room opening from the rear of his own. It was
a large apartment with a long table in the center. Mr. Kuhn, brisk and
business-like, was already there. He shook hands with his client. As he
did so, Graves, dignified and precise as ever, entered, carrying a small
portfolio filled with papers.
"Mornin', Mr. Graves," said the captain; "glad to see you, even under
such distressin' circumstances, as the undertaker said to the sick man.
Feelin' all right again, I hope. No more colds or nothin' like that?"
"No. Thank you. I am quite well, at present."
"That's hearty. If you and me don't do any more buggy ridin' in Cape
Cod typhoons, we'll last a spell yet, hey? What you got there, the death
warrant?" referring to the portfolio and its contents.
Mr. Graves evidently did not consider this flippancy worth a reply, for
he made none.
"Sit down, gentlemen," said Sylvester.
The four took chairs at the table. Graves untied and opened the
portfolio. Captain Elisha looked at his solemn companions, and his lips
twitched.
"You'll excuse me," he observed, "but I feel as if I was goin' to
be tried for piracy on the high seas. Has the court any objection to
tobacco smoke? I'm puttin' the emphasis strong on the 'tobacco,'" he
added, "because this is a cigar you give me yourself, Mr.
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