George Bingham, or as he was familiarly called, “Chip” Bingham, was the youngest operative in Mr. Pinkerton’s service.  His talents, in the detective line, ranged considerably higher than did the general run of his associates.  Possessing an analytical mind, he could take the effect, and, by logical conclusions, retrace its path to the fundamental cause, and following this principle, he had made many valuable discoveries in mystery-shrouded cases, and had, many times, picked the end of a clew from a seemingly hopeless snarl, and raveled the entire mesh of circumstantial evidence, and made from it a strong cord of substantiated facts.  Mr. Pinkerton had early recognized this talent, and having, besides, a peculiar attachment to the handsome young fellow, he frequently placed delicate and intricate cases into his hands, always with good results.  It was for Chip, then, he sent, when he had finished his examination of the valuable package.

Mr. Damsel, his mind somewhat freed from the trouble and worry it had carried since the robbery, had left Mr. Pinkerton alone and returned to his office.

Chip, on receipt of his superior’s message, immediately repaired to Room 84.  His downcast countenance and disappointed air told of fruitless endeavors to catch even the slightest real clew.  He said nothing as he entered the room, but with a gesture of hopeless failure he sank into a chair and awaited his chief’s pleasure.

“Chip, I’ve got a starter.”

With an indulgent smile Chip nodded his head, but failed to exhibit any extraordinary interest.

Mr. Pinkerton’s eyes twinkled.  He understood the situation, but time was valuable and he could not waste any in humorous by-play.  So without further parleying he handed Chip the tell-tale letter.

The young detective, almost from the first word, put the letter down as a practical joke, perpetrated on the newspaper, but as the missive progressed he became interested, and when he had reached that portion which told of the package every fiber of his detective instinct was alive, and Mr. Pinkerton had no need of pointing to the precious parcel as corroborative evidence that the letter was genuine.

In an instant Chip was examining the contents.  Every portion of the revolver, billy and letterheads was searched with deepest scrutiny.  The printed sheet of ballad music was picked up, the verses read and the sheet turned.

An exclamation burst from his lips, as his eye caught the words, written in lead pencil, “——­Chestnut Street,” and placing it beside the letter, he saw it was written by the same hand.  “The devil!  Here is a starter!”

His face glowed with animation, his eyes had the alert look of a hound on a hot scent, and carefully noting the number in his memorandum book, without waiting instructions from Mr. Pinkerton, he picked up his hat and hurriedly left the room.

Mr. Pinkerton, in full sympathy with his subordinate, lit a cigar, and settled back for a comfortable smoke until Chip made his report.