Explore "Sant of the Secret Service" by William Le Queux on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The bold course was the only one possible. I walked straight to the Correo Central, and, entering the _poste restante_, inquired casually for a telegram addressed to the name of Fontan.
"It was called for half an hour ago," was the gruff reply of the little old Spaniard at the counter, who shot a quick look of suspicion at me, wondering, no doubt, how it came about that a second inquiry should be made for the same telegram. I bit my lip, but tried to appear unconcerned, and, after dispatching another message, went out filled with chagrin at having missed my objective by so narrow a margin. The time left me for action was growing desperately short, yet, rack my brains as I would, I could think of no way out of my difficulty.