“No—another one,” MacVightie answered curtly. “Look on the other side.”
Lanson turned the banknote over, stared at it, and whistled suddenly under his breath.
“'With the compliments of the Hawk!'.rdquo; he read aloud. He stared now at MacVightie. “Perhaps it's a fake, inspired by that newspaper article yesterday evening,” he suggested.
“It's no fake,” declared MacVightie grimly. “The Hawk wrote that there all right—it was inside the pay bag in which the ten thousand was carried away from the paymaster's office last night.”
“You mean—you recovered the bag?” cried Lanson eagerly. “Where? When?”
The Hawk, watching MacVightie's face, grinned wickedly. MacVightie's jaws were clamped belligerently, and upon MacVightie's cheeks was an angry flush.
“Oh, yes, I 'recovered' it!” MacVightie snapped. “He's got his nerve with him! The bag was found reposing in full view on the baggage counter at Selkirk this afternoon—addressed to me. Nobody knows how it got there. But”—MacVightie's fist came down again upon the operator's table—“this time he's overplayed his hand. We knew he had been released from Sing Sing, and that he had come West, but it was only surmise that he was actually around here—now we know. In the second place, it's pretty good evidence that he's in with the gang that's flooded the country with those counterfeit tens, and you'll remember I told you last night I had a hunch it was the same gang that was operating out here—well, two and two make four!”
“You think he's——?” Lanson swept his hand suggestively toward the telegraph instruments.
“Yes—and the leader of 'em, now he's out here on the ground!” returned MacVightie gruffly.
The Hawk had taken a pencil from his pocket, and was scribbling aimlessly at the top of the page in his notebook.