Suddenly he threw down his pen with a laugh of triumph, and holding a piece of paper before him, exclaimed:  “There, lads, there it is; there’s the key that will unlock a little mint for us.”

Throwing himself back in his chair, he drew a cigar from his pocket, and, lighting it, listened with great satisfaction to the words of praise uttered by his companions as they compared the forged with the genuine signature.

These three men were on the eve of a desperate enterprise.  For months they had been planning and working together, and the time for action was rapidly approaching.

The one called “Cummings,” the leader, was apparently, the youngest one of the three.  There was nothing in his face to denote the criminal.  A stranger looking at him, would imagine him to be a good-natured, jovial chap, a little shrewd perhaps, but fond of a good dinner, a good drink, a good cigar, and nothing else.

One of his colleagues, whom he called “Roe,” evidently an alias, was smaller in size, but had a determined expression on his face, that showed him to be a man who would take a desperate chance if necessary.

The third man, called sometimes Weaver, and sometimes Williams, was the smallest one of the conspirators, and also the eldest.  His frame, though small, was compact and muscular, but his face lacked both the determination of Roe and the frank, open expression of Cummings.

After scrutinizing the forgery for a time, Roe returned it to Cummings and said, “Jim, who has the run out on the Frisco when you make the plant?”

“A fellow named Fotheringham, a big chap, too.  I was going to lay for the other messenger, Hart, who is a small man, and could be easily handled, but he has the day run now.”

“This Fotheringham will have to be a dandy if he can tell whether Barrett has written this or not, eh, Jim?”

“Aye, that he will.  Let me once get in that car, and if the letter don’t work, I’ll give him a taste of the barker.”

“No shooting, Jim, no shooting, I swear to God I’ll back out if you spill a drop of blood.”

Jim’s eyes glittered, and he hissed between his teeth: 

“You back out, Roe, and you’ll see some shooting.”

Roe laughed a nervous laugh, and said, as he pushed some blank letter-heads toward Cummings, “Who’s goin’ to back out, only I don’t like the idea of shooting a man, even to get the plunder.  Here’s the Adam’s Express letter-heads I got to-day.  Try your hand on the letter.”

Cummings, somewhat pacified, with careful and laborious strokes of the pen, wrote as follows: 

“Springfield, Mo., October 24th, ’86.

Messenger, train No. 3, St. L & st. F. RTE: 

Dr. Sir:  You will let the bearer, John Broson, Ride in your car to
Peirce, and give him all the Instructions that you can.  Yours,

J.B.  Barrett, R.A.”