"Humph! all small affairs. No wonder he hasn't been promoted. The first is that of a young woman who used washed postage stamps. They found four dollars worth of washed stamps in her possession. The next is the arrest of a cigar dealer, who used stamped boxes more than once.

He was a fellow sixty-eight years old and got two years. The last case is a mail-order swindle, a ten-cent puzzle, a small affair, run by a nineteen-year-old boy, and sentence was suspended."

"Not a very brilliant record," was Adams's comment. "It's a wonder he can hold his job."

"It is a wonder. But he may have political influence, or something else, or, it is barely possible that he may be doing some work that is not on record here. That is all I can tell you."

"What is his salary?"

"A thousand or twelve hundred a year."

"Not a very elaborate income. No wonder he would like to run down those counterfeiters. It would be a feather in his cap, eh?"

"Most a.s.suredly. Do you expect to double up with him? Of course, it's none of my business and you needn't answer if you don't care to."

"I don't know what I'll do yet. This is a complication I want to study first."

"I see. Well, if we can help you--"

"I'll send word, don't fear. And if I do send word, I want you to act on the jump."

"Don't worry about that. I know if you send word it means business,"

answered the secret service officer, with a laugh.

An hour later found Adam Adams on a train bound for Bryport. He reached that city in the evening, and from a directory he learned where the secret service man resided. A street car brought him to within two blocks of the dwelling. It was a building of no mean pretentions and on a corner which looked to be valuable. Walking along the side street he saw that two domestics were at work in the kitchen and dining room.

"He certainly lives in style," mused Adam Adams. "Wonder if he manages it on twelve hundred a year?"

As it was a warm night the windows were open and by going close to the house he could hear the conversation being carried on by the servants as they moved back and forth between the two rooms.

From their talk, he learned that Mrs. Watkins and her two daughters were at Saratoga, and that it was expected that the husband would join his family there soon.

"And we'll have good times when he's gone, ain't that so, Caddie?" said one of the domestics.

"That we will," was the answer. "Better times than now, anyway, when you can't tell when he is coming in and when he is going out. It is a queer way he has with him lately."

"I guess he is worried over his money."

"Why, what do you know about that, Caddie Dix?"

"What do I know, Nellie Casey? Tim Corey told me Mrs. Watkins didn't git a cent of the old grandfather's money, although she said she did, and so did the master say so. It all went to the other part of the family."

"Then where did Mr. Watkins git his money, I'd like to know."

"Don't ask me. Tim says he is flush enough at the club and other places. The government must pay him more than most folks imagine."

"Is Tim goin' to the Rosebud's picnic?"

"Yes, and Dan's goin' too, and Dan wants me to bring you," went on one of the domestics, and then the talk drifted into a channel which was of no further interest to Adam Adams.

He rightfully surmised that John Watkins was not home and was somewhat puzzled to decide what he should do next. It was a long journey from Bryport to Sidham, and it was a question if he could accomplish anything at the scene of the tragedy during the night.

"Perhaps it will pay just as well to go to a hotel and go to bed," he told himself.

He had just come out to the corner of the street and was halting at the curb, when he saw two men approaching. One of the pair was John Watkins, and the other was a heavy-set stranger, with bushy hair and a round, red nose and mutton-chop whiskers.

"Here we are, Styles," said John Watkins. "It's a little late, but I reckon the girls can fix us up something to eat. It's better than going to a restaurant."

"Anything will do me, if you've got a gla.s.s of ale to go with it," was the reply.

"Got to have a real Englishman's drink, eh?" said the secret service man, with a short laugh. "Well, I've remembered you and I can fix you up to the queen's taste. Come on inside." And then the pair entered the house.

CHAPTER XVII

AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION

Adam Adams had watched the appearance and disappearance of the two men with interest. He remembered that Matlock Styles, the man who owed the Langmore estate $16,000 on three mortgages, was an Englishman, with mutton-chop whiskers. Evidently the man who had arrived with the secret service employee was the same individual.

This being so, the question at once arose, what had brought the pair together? Matlock Styles lived in an old colonial mansion, so Raymond Case had said, a mile and a half from the Langmore estate. Did his coming to Bryport have anything to do with the tragedy or with the counterfeits?

Going close to the house once more, he heard the two men enter the parlor and heard Watkins order supper. Then followed a conversation in such a low tone that he could only catch an occasional word. He heard something about mortgages and then a safe was mentioned, but he could not catch the direct connection. Evidently though, they were discussing the Langmore affair.

In a short while supper was served and the two men pa.s.sed to the dining hall. Here, while the girls were near, they spoke of matters in general. The meal finished, John Watkins invited his visitor up to his den on the second floor.

As said before, the house was on a corner, and by the lighting up of a room above, Adam Adams located the den, just behind the main front corner room, and close to a tree, which grew along the side street.

Looking around, the detective made certain that n.o.body was observing him, and then began to climb the tree with the agility of a schoolboy.

One heavy branch ran out close to the building, and standing on this brought him to within three feet of the window, which was screened and open from the bottom to admit the air. The curtain was down to within three inches of the window sill, thus affording the detective a chance to peep into the apartment without running much risk of being discovered.

"Then you say the mortgages have not been paid?" came from John Watkins.

"No, blast the luck!" growled Matlock Styles. "I didn't think he wanted the cash so I let them run on."

"Have you any idea how the estate is to be divided?"

"I understand the girl gets half. The wife's half will go to her two sons now."

"That is lucky for them. I reckon d.i.c.k Ostrello can use all the money he can lay hands on. He's a wild one, if ever there was one."

"Don't Tom spend his money?"

"Not lately. I understand he is saving up to marry some girl in New York."

"Humph."

There was a pause, during which time both men lit cigars.