Almost instantly the answer came:  telegraph for Pinkerton.

The telegram was sent, and when William Pinkerton wired back that he would come at once.  Mr. Damsel felt his load of responsibility begin to grow lighter, and he waited impatiently for the morning to come.

The next morning about 10 o’clock Mr. Damsel received a note, signed “Pinkerton,” requesting him to call at room 84 of the Southern Hotel.  He went at once.  A pleasant-faced gentleman, with a heavy mustache and keen eyes, greeted him, and Mr. Damsel was shaking hands with the famous detective, on whose shoulders had fallen the mantle of his father, Allan Pinkerton, probably the finest detective the world has ever seen.

Mr. Damsel had his stenographer’s notes, which had been transcribed on the type-writer, and Mr. Pinkerton carefully and slowly read every word.

“What sort of a man is this Fotheringham?”

“He is a large, well built, and I should say, muscular young fellow.  Has always been reliable before, and has been with us some years.”

“Has he ever been arrested before?”

“He says twice.  Once for shooting off a gun on Sunday, and again for knocking a man down for insulting a lady.”

“You think he is guilty—­that is, you think he had a hand in the robbery?”

“Mr. Pinkerton, I regret to say I do.  It doesn’t seem probable that a strong, hearty man would allow another man to disarm him, gag him, tie him hand and foot, get away with $100,000, and all that without a desperate struggle, and he hasn’t the sign of a scratch or bruise on him.”

“N-n-no, it doesn’t.  Still it could be done.  You have him under arrest, then.”

“Not exactly.  He is in my office now, and apparently has no thought of trying to escape.”

“Well, Mr. Damsel, I am inclined to think that this man Fotheringham knows no more of this robbery than he has told you.  If he is in collusion with the robber, or robbers—­for I think that more than one had to do with it—­he would have made up a story in which two or more had attacked him.  He would have had a cut in the arm, a bruised head or some such corroborating testimony to show.  The fact that he was held up by a single man goes a good way, in my judgment, to prove him innocent of any criminal connection with the robbery.  We must look elsewhere for the culprits.”

“Had you not better see Fotheringham?”

“Of course I intend doing that.  Did you secure the clothing which this so-called Cummings threw out of the train?”

“Telegrams have been sent out, and I hope to have it sent in by to-morrow.”

“That is good—­we may find something which we can grasp.  The public generally have an idea that a detective can make something out of nothing that the merest film of a clew is all that is necessary with which to build up a strong substantial edifice of facts.  It is only the Messieurs La Coqs and ‘Old Sleuths’ of books and illustrated weeklies that are possessed with the second sight, and can hunt down the shrewdest criminals, without being bound to such petty things as clews, circumstantial evidence or witnesses.  We American detectives can generally make 4 by putting 2 and 2 together, but we must have a starting point, and an old shirt or a pair of stockings, such as this robber threw away, may contain just what we need.”