“Did you get your man?”

“There was no man to get.”

“Do you mean to say you found the bills?”

“I did and I didn’t.  They were in the safe of a man who was murdered. 
I guess I’ll have to tell you the best part of the story,” and Adam
Adams did so.  “This is, of course, confidential,” he went on.

“Trust me for that, Adams.  Strange complication, as you just remarked.  I suppose you are going to follow up the murder mystery.  Will you follow this up, too?”

“I think so.  I can’t get it out of my head that the two are related to each other.”

“More than likely.  Now, you just said you wanted to know something.”

“I want to know about this John S. Watkins, of Bryport.”

“Um!  If I give you his record, you’ll of course keep it to yourself.  You know how the department is about such things?”

“You are safe with me.”

“I’ll have the record brought in.”

There was a wait of several minutes, and then a big book was produced from one of the safes.

“Here you are, Adams:  John S. Watkins, Bryport.  Born at New Haven, October 4, 1862.  Former occupation, model maker and cabinet maker.  Private detective for four years, and one year with the Cassell agency.  Entered the United States service three years ago.  Never been advanced.  Cases 45,254; 47,732; 46,829.  Wait till I see what those cases are.”

Then three other records were brought forth and examined.

“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 assuredly.  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.