The young man, a hectic flush beginning to burn on his cheeks, gazed wildly from one to the other.
“What—what is it?” he cried out.
The man threw back his coat and displayed a badge on his vest.
“I'm Kline of the secret service,” he said gravely. “I'm sorry, Sammy, but I want you for that little job in Washington at the bureau—before you left on sick leave!”
Sammy Matthews struggled away from his mother's arms, pulled himself forward in his chair—and his tongue licked dry lips.
“What—what job?” he whispered thickly.
“You know, don't you?” the other answered steadily. He took a large, flat pocketbook from his pocket, opened it, and took out a five-dollar bill. He held this before the sick man's eyes, but just out of reach, one finger silently indicating the lower left-hand corner.
Matthews stared at it for a moment, and the hectic flush faded to a grayish pallor, and a queer, impotent sound gurgled in his throat.
“I see you recognise it,” said the other quietly. “It's open and shut, Sammy. That little imperfection in the plate's got you, my boy.”
“Sammy! Sammy!” sobbed the woman again. “Sammy, say you didn't do it!”