FIVE minutes later James Palmer and Dan Maynard stood on the steps of the Treasury Department.
“It’s a rum go,” the former remarked. “Who’d have thought Jones, as old and good a servant as he is, would have tried to get Burnham into trouble by reporting him to the Secret Service? It shows we are all at the mercy of some fool, spy-mad.”
Maynard’s eyes twinkled as he adjusted his tie which was slightly awry. “It was our German spy theory regarding the dead man which took us to see Chief Connor——”
“But we had some ground to go on,” interrupted Palmer. “Whereas, poor Burnham never uttered any seditious sentiments, I am confident. That old fool, Jones, has muddled things nicely.” They had approached the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street as they talked and Palmer stopped at the curb. “Are you going to speak to Burnham about Jones’ behavior?”
“Certainly not; Chief Connor requested us to mention it to no one.” Maynard shot a questioning look at his companion who stood with one foot in the street and the other on the curb stone.
“But it seems unfair to Burnham not to warn him that Jones is a meddlesome, untrustworthy old fool,” objected Palmer. “After all, Burnham is our friend.”
“And we can prove our friendship by holding our tongues,” replied Maynard warmly. “Burnham seems laboring under a severe nervous strain; it won’t take much more excitement to break him down. The Secret Service will weed out the lies; Jones’ statements about his employer will be taken for what they are worth; so don’t worry.”
Palmer frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said, shaking a puzzled head. “However, while I’ll say nothing about the matter, I’ll keep my eye on Jones. Are you coming over to the club?”
“Not now.” Maynard glanced up at the clock tower of the building diagonally across the street from where they stood. “I have just time to do several errands before the shops close. I’ll stop at the club on the way home.”
“All right, be sure and look me up,” and Palmer dodged an on-coming motor truck and hurried across the street.