Mr. Redfield looked a little astounded at my rapid operations, and replied, "Well, you are to work up the case according to your own methods; but you surprise me."
"Well," said I, "let me alone, then; let's talk up the Western lands, etc.;" and we did—I laughing outright, immoderately at times, telling Mr. Redfield a story or two, which made him laugh in real earnest; and after we'd fixed up a plan, he went out smiling, asked his older partner to come in to see me, saying, "He's the queerest speculator I ever saw; come in, and see if we can do anything for him." And the man came in. We talked, could not get near a bargain, and I finally left the bank, saying to Mr. Redfield that I'd "write in a week or so; perhaps they'd think better of the offer."
I was not at a loss to see, by the clerk's countenance and manner as I went out, that he was at ease again—which was all I wanted to then effect.
Mr. Redfield and I met that night in a place appointed. He told me they'd had much fun in the office over the "queer speculator," and that his partner had no suspicion of my real business at all; and we entered into a serious conversation. I told him that the chief clerk was the guilty man in my opinion, and that I should proceed upon that theory, and pursue it till forced to give up in that direction, and then drop the matter; that there was no use of attempting anything without the clerk in the programme.
We talked over the matter, and I learned where the clerk kept his private rooms—for he boarded at a hotel, and roomed in a block of business offices and dormitories; and what at first surprised me was to learn that he had left much better rooms within a month or so, since the robbery, and taken up with poorer ones. Mr. Redfield could give me no information as to his habits, save what he judged and what the detectives had reported—all good. But somehow I suspected that there must be a woman involved in some way—a mistress, perhaps, whose extravagance had led astray the clerk, whom we will call Childs, to need more money than he could legitimately make. So I told Mr. Redfield that we must search Childs's room and private papers, if he had any; and it was arranged that Childs should be sent on business to Chicago for two or three days. Mr. Redfield had no difficulty in arranging that, and Childs departed, highly honored with his chief's confidence.
We managed without much trouble to get into Childs's room, where everything but his trunks were first searched,—not excepting the minutest scraps of letters in a wastebasket,—where I found evidences of female correspondence. Further search among some books, on a little shelf at the top of a clothes-press or "closet," revealed some more in the same handwriting—sweet little billets-doux, longer letters, etc.,—all passionate, very,—sometimes complaining, etc.
None of these had envelopes, and I therefore judged that they were written in the city, and sent through the post office, and that Childs probably always, at once, destroyed the envelopes. I should say that none, except some evidently old ones, had envelopes. There was no date or place, save "My little room,"—"Our dear boudoir," or something like that,—and sometimes a further day,—"Thursday Morning,"—"Monday Evening." It was evident to me that the charmer lived in the city somewhere; and I had already made up my mind that she must be tracked out as the first step, when, turning over a letter from this female, the rich, passionate, burning language of which, well-expressed, had led me on, I came to the conclusion, and found—"I have not received pay yet for that article. R—— must not think that he can neglect me as he did Hattie; I will be paid for what I write—something, at least. I guess we shall have to visit him together;" and with very affectionate words of parting, the letter closed. And then came a P. S. "Every day I grow more uneasy about those papers. I wish you would take them away. What if I should suddenly die, and they should be found with me? You said they were very valuable—and you may lose them. I should regret that. Come to-night, dearest."
Ah, ha! here was a literary lady,—a contributor to the story or other papers,—wrote a good hand, and in good style of composition; was evidently on loving terms with Childs. I was in doubt whether mistress or only ardent lover; could not tell that till I should see her, if then. She must be seen. How to find her? Easy enough, perhaps, but maybe not. We left Mr. Childs's room in good order, and separated for the night, I giving Mr. Redfield no more insight into the modes I intended to pursue next day than necessary.
The next morning I started for the newspaper offices with a portion of one of the letters I had found, made a proper story of wishing to engage the literary services of the writer of the letter if I could find her, but that I knew not her name; as her friend, who had given me the portion of the letter to show her style, and had not yet given me her name, had been called off to New York by telegraph, I found,—wanted to find her that day.
At the first office I entered nobody could tell me anything. But on entering the second one, and finding the associate editor, and asking him if he recognized that writing, he looked up and smiled, as if he thought I had a joke for him.