“Never mind, my good Strock,” said he, “there will come a chance for our clever inspector to regain his laurels. Take now this affair of the automobile and the boat. If you could clear that up in advance of all the detectives of the world, what an honor it would be to our department! What glory for you!”
“It certainly would, Mr. Ward. And if you put the matter in my charge—”
“Who knows, Strock? Let us wait a while! Let us wait!”
Matters stood thus when, on the morning of June fifteenth, my old servant brought me a letter from the letter-carrier, a registered letter for which I had to sign. I looked at the address. I did not know the handwriting. The postmark, dating from two days before, was stamped at the post office of Morganton.
Morganton! Here at last was, no doubt, news from Mr. Elias Smith.
“Yes!” exclaimed I, speaking to my old servant, for lack of another, “it must be from Mr. Smith at last. I know no one else in Morganton. And if he writes he has news!”
“Morganton?” said the old woman, “isn’t that the place where the demons set fire to their mountain?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, sir! I hope you don’t mean to go back there!”
“Why not?”