"You are safe with me."
"I'll have the record brought in."
There was a wait of several minutes, and then a big book was produced from one of the safes.
"Here you are, Adams: John S. Watkins, Bryport. Born at New Haven, October 4, 1862. Former occupation, model maker and cabinet maker. Private detective for four years, and one year with the Cassell agency. Entered the United States service three years ago. Never been advanced. Cases 45,254; 47,732; 46,829. Wait till I see what those cases are."
Then three other records were brought forth and examined.
"Humph! all small affairs. No wonder he hasn't been promoted. The first is that of a young woman who used washed postage stamps. They found four dollars worth of washed stamps in her possession. The next is the arrest of a cigar dealer, who used stamped boxes more than once. He was a fellow sixty-eight years old and got two years. The last case is a mail-order swindle, a ten-cent puzzle, a small affair, run by a nineteen-year-old boy, and sentence was suspended."
"Not a very brilliant record," was Adams's comment. "It's a wonder he can hold his job."
"It is a wonder. But he may have political influence, or something else, or, it is barely possible that he may be doing some work that is not on record here. That is all I can tell you."
"What is his salary?"
"A thousand or twelve hundred a year."