“It’s a fact,” declared Dick. “The Secret Service men are after him. I expect to hear of his arrest at any moment.”
Hardy sank back in his chair and mopped his red face. He had very much the appearance of a pricked gas balloon.
“Would you mind putting me wise?” he asked, finally. “I’ve been so busy shadowing Miss Trevor, I am all in the dark about Clark. The Secret Service Bureau haven’t notified us yet. I suppose they want him for some Government business.”
In a few terse sentences Dick told him of his interview with Chief Connor, and of the evidence he had collected against Clark. At the end Hardy swore with fluency and ease.
“What a blank—blank—fool I’ve been to be taken in by that scoundrel,” he gasped. “Then this handkerchief business is only a plan to throw dust in my eyes.”
“I think so,” agreed Dick. “Clark evidently wanted to turn suspicion against Miss Trevor, so manufactured this evidence. It was probably an easy matter for him to pick up one of Miss Trevor’s handkerchiefs; as a rule women shed them wherever they go. Then he pricked his arm, or made his nose bleed so as to get blood stains on it. Depend upon it, Hardy, he is your man.”
“You are right, sir,” exclaimed Hardy, banging his fist on the table. “Now that you have shown me the way, I’ll bring the murder home to him, or bust. Here, Johnston,” to a plain clothes officer who had just entered the office, “get your hat and come on.”
Dick left the two detectives at the main entrance of the District Building and rushed down to the Star. After a satisfactory interview with Colonel Byrd, he hastened to his desk where he found an accumulation of work waiting for him. But, as it happened, that particular work was never finished by him, for at that moment a District messenger boy handed him a note, the contents of which surprised him very much. It read:
Dear Dick:
Get over here as quick as you can. Must see you. Most important.