Owen stared at him incredulously. “Are you joking with me?” he demanded.
“Not at all. I am perfectly serious. As I said before, you have made a big hit with me, and I want to help you. To get you the post you are looking for will not be difficult. You may have to wait a little while, for there are no vacancies at present, but I give you my word that as soon as one occurs you shall be made an inspector.”
He rose from his chair and held out his hand to Owen to indicate that the interview was at an end.
“Well, good-by. I am very glad to have met you,” he said heartily. “Stick to your job as carrier for the present, and rest assured that it won’t be very long before you will be in the department’s secret service.”
Feeling as if he were in a dream, Owen rose and walked toward the door; but just as he was about to turn the handle, Coggswell’s voice halted him.
“Oh, by the way,” said the politician, in a careless tone, “there is one little point that I had almost forgotten. I think you cover route number forty-eight, do you not?”
“Yes, that is my regular route.”
Coggswell drew nearer to Owen and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Well, Sheridan, suppose there was somebody residing on your route whose mail I happened to be interested in? Suppose I had good reasons for wishing to examine this man’s letters, without his knowledge, of course. Suppose I asked you not to deliver anything to him until after it had first passed through my hands, or the hands of a trusted agent? What would you say to that, Sheridan?”
“I would tell you to go to blazes!” replied Owen promptly. “I am not a crook, Mr. Coggswell.”
So here was the nigger in the woodpile, at last. This was the meaning of all the soft words that had gone before, and the glittering promise which the politician had made to him.