The Box with Broken Seals

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The Box with Broken Seals

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Title: The Box with Broken Seals
Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim
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THE BOX WITH BROKEN SEALS
BY
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
1919
CHAPTER I
James Crawshay, Englishman of the type usually described in
transatlantic circles as "some Britisher," lolled apparently at his ease
upon the couch of the too-resplendent sitting room in the Hotel
Magnificent, Chicago. Hobson, his American fellow traveler, on the
other hand, betrayed his anxiety by his nervous pacing up and down the
apartment. Both men bore traces in their appearance of the long journey
which they had only just completed.
"I think," Crawshay decided, yawning, "that I shall have a bath. I feel
gritty, and my collar--heavens, what a sight! Your trains, Hobson, may
be magnificent, but your coal is filthy. I will have a bath while your
friend, the policeman, makes up his mind whether to come and see us

or not."
His companion treated the suggestion with scant courtesy.
"You will do nothing of the sort," was his almost fierce objection.
"We've got to wait right here until Chief of Police Downs comes along.
There's something crooked about this business, something I don't
understand, and the sooner we get to the bottom of it, the better."
The Englishman pacified himself with a whisky and soda which a
waiter had just brought in. He added several lumps of ice and drained
the contents of the tumbler with a little murmur of appreciation.
"It will be confoundedly annoying," he admitted quietly, "if we've had
all this journey for nothing."
Hobson moistened his dry lips with his tongue. The whisky and soda
and the great bucket of ice stood temptingly at his elbow, but he
appeared to ignore their existence. He was a man of ample build, with a
big, clean-shaven face, a square jaw and deep-set eyes, a man devoted
to and wholly engrossed by his work.
"See here, Crawshay," he exclaimed, "if that dispatch was a fake, if
we've been brought here on a fool's errand, they haven't done it for
nothing. If they've brought it off against us, you mark my words, we're
left--we're bamboozled--we're a couple of lost loons! There's nothing
left for us but to sell candy to small boys or find a job on a farm."
"You're such a pessimist," the Englishman yawned.
"Pessimist!" was the angry retort. "I'll just ask you one question, my
son. Where's Downs?"
"I certainly think," Crawshay admitted, "that under the circumstances
he might have been at the station to meet us."
"He wouldn't even talk through the 'phone," Hobson pointed out. "I had
to explain who we were to one of his inspectors. No one seemed to

know a goldarned thing about us."
"They sent for him right away when you explained who you were,"
Crawshay reminded his companion.
Hobson found no comfort whatever in the reflection.
"Of course they did," he replied brusquely. "There's scarcely likely to
be a chief of police of any city in the United States who wouldn't get a
move on when he knew that Sam Hobson was waiting for a word. I
haven't been in the Secret Service of this country for fifteen years for
nothing. He'll come fast enough as soon as he knows I'm waiting, but
all the same, what I want to know is, if that dispatch was on the square,
why he wasn't at the station to meet us, and if it wasn't on the square,
how the hell do we come