“No; he is sure they do not belong to us, and were never among our men.”
“Very well. Beale has done famously. Let him keep a strict watch until further orders.”
Once more the Chief knits his brow and ponders. The mystery grows deeper, and he finds in it ample food for meditation.
But he is doomed to interruption. This time it is Vernet’s report.
He eyes it askance, and lays it upon the desk beside him. Just now it is less interesting, less important, than his own thoughts.
But again his door opens. He lifts his head with a trace of annoyance. It is George, the office boy. He comes forward and proffers a note to his Chief.
The latter takes it slowly, looks languidly at the superscription, then breaks the seal.
One glance, and the expression of annoyance and languor is gone; the eyes brighten, and the whole man is alive with interest.
And yet the note contains only these two lines:
Send three good men, in plain clothes, to the last saloon at the foot of K. street, 2 P. M. sharp.