“Parson!” said he, and his eyes glittered.  “Do you know what we’ve stumbled upon?  Dynamite!  Man, anybody holding that bunch of mail could blow this state wide open!  So much for a hunch, you see!”

“You mean—­”

“I mean I’ve got the cream off Inglesby’s most private deals, that’s what I mean!  I mean I could send him and plenty of his pals to the pen.  Everybody’s been saying for years that there hasn’t been a rotten deal pulled off that he didn’t boss and get away with it.  But nobody could prove it.  He’s had the men higher-up eating out of his hand—­sort of you pat my head and I’ll pat yours arrangement—­and here’s the proof, in black and white.  Don’t you understand?  Here’s the proof:  these get him with the goods!

“These,” he slapped a letter, “would make any Grand Jury throw fits, make every newspaper in the state break out into headlines like a kid with measles, and blow the lid off things in general—­if they got out.

“Inglesby’s going to shove Eustis under, is he?  Not by a jugfull.  He’s going to play he’s a patent life-preserver.  He’s going to be that good Samaritan he’s been shamming.  Talk about poetic justice—­this will be like wearing shoes three sizes too small for him, with a bunion on every toe!” And when I looked at him doubtfully, he laughed.

“You can’t see how it’s going to be managed?  Didn’t you ever hear of the grapevine telegraph?  Well then, dear George receives a grapevine wireless bright and early to-morrow morning.  A word to the wise is sufficient.”

“He will employ detectives,” said I, uneasily.

The Butterfly Man looked at me quizzically.

“With an eagle eye and a walrus mustache,” said he, grinning.  “Sure.  But if the plainclothes nose around, are they going to sherlock the parish priest and the town bughunter? We haven’t got any interest in Mr. Inglesby’s private correspondence, have we?  Suppose Miss Eustis’s letters are returned to her, what does that prove?  Why, nothing at all,—­except that it wasn’t her correspondence the fellows that cracked that safe were after.  We should worry!

“Say, though, don’t you wish you could see them when they stroll down to those beautiful offices and go for to open that nice burglar-proof safe with the little brass flower-pot on top of it?  What a joke!  Holy whiskered black cats, what a joke!”

“I’m afraid Mr. Inglesby’s sense of humor isn’t his strong point,” said I.  “Not that I have any sympathy for him.  I think he is getting only what he deserves.”

“Alexander the coppersmith wrought me much evil.  May God requite him according to his works!” murmured the Butterfly Man, piously, and chuckled.  “Don’t worry, parson—­Alexander’s due to fall sick with the pip to-day or to-morrow.  What do you bet he don’t get it so bad he’ll have to pull up all his pretty plans by the roots, leave Mr. Hunter in charge, and go off somewhere to