“What do you mean?” asked the latter, hastily, with a slight tinge of color.
“I mean simply to turn every stone that lies in my way and see what is under it,” said the officer, fixing his eyes upon him. “You were one of the parties having access to that safe, and control of the stolen warehouse order.”
“But I was absent from the city in Harrisburg,” replied Mr. Wilson, a little hotly. “Did you trace any guilt to me?”
“I merely wrote to Harrisburg, to inquire if a man named Miles Sartain had died and been buried on certain days named, and if one Augustus Wilson had attended the funeral; that is all.”
“You were inquisitive, indeed,” said Wilson, in a light tone. “I was there.”
“Yes. So I have learned. You must remember, sir, that I know nobody in this matter. If I got you in my vise, I would squeeze you as tightly as the meanest man in the store.”
“I hope to keep out of your vise, then,” said Wilson, laughing.
“So, as the case now stands,” said Mr. Leonard, “we have absolutely no clew?”
“We have hold of one or two threads only, but there is nothing visible yet at the ends of them.”
“I have been more fortunate, then. I have found some positive evidence.”