“Absolutely so,” he answered. “Even if I hadn’t seen him,” he added maliciously, “I might have guessed that the robbery was his work. I know his methods. That fellow Hawley is so unprincipled, Virginia, that he’d steal the crutch from a cripple.”
Feeling very well satisfied with himself and his evening’s work, Gale went out and repaired to a certain café which he knew was the haunt of a man whom he greatly desired to see.
“I believe you were telling me, the other day,” he said, when he had found his man, “that you used to be employed by former President Felix?”
“I was his private secretary,” the other answered.
“Then you ought to be pretty familiar with his handwriting?”
“I know it as well as I do my own.”
“Fine!” exclaimed the reporter, suddenly producing a letter. “That being the case, old man, take a good look at this and let me know whether you recognize the fist?”
The man studied the script closely, and a look of astonishment came to his face. “It is Felix’s handwriting!” he declared positively.
“Good!” exclaimed Gale exultantly. “Now, see here: I’m going to give you a chance to make some easy money. I’ve got several more of these letters here, and I want them translated. I understand enough Spanish to get an idea what they’re about, but I want a good translation. There’s ten dollars—American money—in it for you if you want to undertake the job.”
President Felix’s former secretary nodded eagerly, and, taking a fountain pen and a notebook, which Gale handed him, rapidly wrote out an English translation of the correspondence.