ouquet, also your envelope," said Stuart, "You
probably don't recall that you left them with me about two this morning.
I _do_."

"I'm mighty much obliged, old man," Harleston responded. "You did me a
great service by taking them--I'll tell you about it later."

"Hump!" grunted Stuart. "I hope you'll come around to tell me at a more
seasonable hour. So long!"

Harleston closed the door, and was half-way across the living-room when
there came another knock.

Tossing the envelope and the faded roses on a nearby table, he stepped
back and swung open the door.

Instantly, a revolver was shoved into his face, and Crenshaw sprang into
the hall and closed the door.

"I thought as much!" he exclaimed. "I'll take that envelope, my friend,
and be quick about it."

"What envelope?" Harleston inquired pleasantly, never seeming to notice
the menacing automatic.

"Come, no trifling!" Crenshaw snapped. "The envelope that the man from
the apartment across the corridor just handed you."

Harleston laughed. "You are obsessed with the notion that I have
something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw."

"_The letter!_" exclaimed Crenshaw.

"That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it's not the one you seem to
want."

"I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you," Crenshaw derided,
advancing. "Get back, sir,--I'll get the envelope myself."

"My dear man," Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door
of the living-room, "I'll let you see the envelope; I've not the
slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I'm not dangerous."

"You're not so long as I've got the drop on you!" Crenshaw laughed
sneeringly. "Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table--the
far side, do you hear--while I examine the envelope yonder beside the
roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I've seen them
before."

Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.

"All right, stay there, then!" said Crenshaw, and reached for the
letter.

As he did so, Harleston's slippered foot shot out and drove hard into
the other's stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The
next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.

It was not for long, however. Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed;
and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the
fingers sent the automatic flying.

"If it were not for spoiling the devil's handiwork, my fine friend, I'd
smash your face,"