The book of arrivals was open, and Adin Woods went forward and examined it.  Silently he pointed to a name evidently just written, for the ink was scarcely dry.  This was the name:  Louis Wheeler, Philadelphia.

“This may or may not be his real name,” said Mr. Woods in a low voice.

“Do you wish to register, gentlemen?” asked the clerk.

“We will take dinner, and if we decide to stay will register later.  By the way, I recognize this name, but it may not be the man I suppose.”

“Yes, the gentleman just registered.”

“Would you mind describing him?”

“He was a tall, dark man as near as I can remember.”

“And he carried a small casket in his hand?”

“Yes, and a gripsack.”

“Oh yes,” said the agent his face lighting up with satisfaction.  “It is the man I mean—­where is he now?”

“In his room.”

“Did he say how long he intended to stay?”

“No, sir.  He said nothing about his plans.”

“Did he seem specially careful about the casket?”

“Yes, sir.  He carried that in his hands, but let the servant carry up the gripsack.”

“My friend,” said the agent in an impressive tone, “I am going to surprise you.”

The country clerk looked all curiosity.

“Is it about Mr. Wheeler?” he asked.

“Yes, the man is a thief.  He stole the casket, which contains valuable jewelry, from my young friend here.  We are here to demand a return of the property or to arrest him.  Is there a policeman within call?”

“I can summon a constable.”

“Do so, but don’t breathe a word of what I have told you.”

The clerk called a boy in from the street and gave him instructions in a low voice.  He went at once on his errand, and in ten minutes a stout broad shouldered man made his appearance.

“This gentleman sent for you, Mr. Barlow,” said the clerk.

“What can I do for you?” asked the constable.

“Help me to recover stolen property.”

“That I will do with pleasure if you will tell me what you want me to do.”

Adin Woods held a brief conference with the constable, then he led the way up stairs, followed immediately by Rodney, while the constable kept a little behind.

“His room is No. 9,” said the bell boy.

The agent paused before the door of No. 9, and knocked.

“Come in!” said a voice.

The agent opened the door, and entered, accompanied by Rodney.  A glance showed that the occupant answered the description given by the lady in the car.

Louis Wheeler changed color, for he recognized both the agent and Rodney.

“What is your business?” he asked in a tone which he tried to make indifferent.

“That,” answered Woods, pointing to the jewel casket on the bureau.

It looked to him as if Wheeler, if that was his name, had been trying to open it.