“Samples of any sort will do, Sanford. Let me have them as soon as possible.”
Sanford arose, hesitated, and then said:
“If you would trust me, sir, I might—but you have sent for Carnegie?”
“Yes; it’s about this business. What were you going to say, Sanford?”
“I know all their hands so well, sir, I was about to offer my services, but—”
“It’s a good idea; thank you, thank you. I think I’ll give you both a chance at it. Now, bring me the specimens, Sanford. We will talk this over again.”
In half an hour, Carnegie presented himself. He was a small, old man, with a shrewd face and keen, intelligent eye.
“I’ve got some work for you, Carnegie,” began the Chief, waiving all ceremony. “It’s of the kind you like, too.”
“Ah!” Carnegie dropped his hat upon a chair, rubbed his hands softly together and smiled upon his patron, looking as if at that instant ready and anxious to pounce upon any piece of work that was “of the kind he liked.”
“It’s a forgery on this office,” went on the Chief, as quietly as if he had said, it’s an invitation to tea. “And you’ll have a variety of handwritings to gloat over; Sanford is looking them up.”