"I wish I could stop you from even _thinking_ about telepathy!"
"If you could," I said calmly, "you'd have to be telepathic to
determine when I had violated your dictum--and if you were telepathic,
Chief, you'd have been on my side from the beginning."
He merely glared at me. At this moment I should have been expecting the
worst, and prepared to meet it. But please remember that there's always
that mental block against prying, especially when the United States
mail is concerned. But now Edward Hazlett Wood was about to show me how
a real extra-sensory sharpshooter clobbers his enemies.
* * * * *
Weston's secretary entered, carrying a package.
I saw it, knew at once what it was, and groaned with despair. The only
chance I saw of getting out of this was the forlorn hope that Weston
would believe the package was a dig, probably mailed by the sniping
columnist.
It was cleverly contrived. The addressee's name had been blurred and
half-obliterated so that it couldn't have been quietly dropped on my
desk where I could have disposed of its damning contents quietly. It
had, of course, come special delivery, urgent, immediate handling. If
I were a believer in amulets, witches and spells, I'd have been of the
opinion that an _aura_ of urgency had been created about the box.
Chief Weston's secretary handed it to him with a mumbled suggestion
that it seemed to be important, and perhaps it should be opened in
hopes that the contents would convey information as to the identity
of the owner.