“Yas, it is,” answered the woman.  “Got it half full neow.  Carry the key in my pocket.”

She gave a grin, intended for a knowing smile, in admiration of her own cleverness.

“I believe the hiding-place is tolerably secure,” replied the officer, with the air of one who desired to be convinced, but had not yet reached the point of full assurance.

“You seem to be very particl’r and diffikilt to satisfy,” continued Mrs. Morris; “but, if yeou don’t believe it, jest come and see for you’sef.”

She led the way to the bureau, opened the drawer, and, raising a plaid cotton handkerchief, displayed the contraband letters by the score.  All were directed to the lottery firm, and were turned over to the knave from time to time as it suited his convenience to call for them.  As no such firm did business at Wington Junction, it was the duty of the postmaster to forward to the department, as fictitious and undeliverable, all letters bearing the address of the swindlers.  In similar cases neglect to obey the regulation was treated as sufficient ground for instant removal.

More fully pleased with the result of the examination than the woman surmised, the officer resumed:  “I see you are very particular about your methods of doing business, and do not mean to be caught napping.  The arrangement we are about to enter into is a very important one, and, as you are not postmaster, your husband will have to be present to witness and ratify the bargain.”

“Bless yeour soul,” replied she, “it’s all right.  I ’tend to all the biznis.  My husband doesn’t bother hissef abeout it in the least.”

“Madam,” answered the officer, “pardon me.  I had my training in a large city, and am accustomed to pay minute attention to every detail.  Your husband is the principal in this case, and must ratify the agreement to make it binding.  Of course you will derive all the benefit, but his presence is essential as a matter of form.”

Apparently satisfied, she called for “John,” who replied promptly to the summons.

“Mr. Morris,” said the officer, “your wife has agreed to keep my letters for me—­”

“Yaas,” broke in the postmaster.  “I know’d she would.  Yeou’ll find she’ll dew it right, tew.  Nobody can’t come enny tricks on her—­can they, Sue?  I wish one o’ ’em durn’d deetecters would come around, jest tew see heow she’d pull the wool over ’im.  I wudn’t ax enny better fun;” and he indulged in a fit of loud cachinnation at the absurdity of supposing that anyone could match in sharpness his own beloved Sue.

“The letters will come to that address,” said the agent, pulling out his commission from the postmaster-general, and exhibiting it to the pair.

Taking in the purport of it at a glance, Morris jumped several inches into the air, slapped his sides, and exclaimed, “A deetecter, arter all; sold, by jingo!”

“We’re bust’d then,” chimed in Sue, with a melancholy grin.