“You’ll remember that I promised to get you a job working for Uncle Sam. That job is yours if you’re alive to take it. It’ll bring you so near the war, if that’s what you want, that you couldn’t stick a piece of tissue paper between.
“If you get this all right and are still keen to work in transport service, there won’t be any difficulty on account of the experience you’ve had.
“Drop in to see me Saturday afternoon, room 509, Federal Building, New York, if you’re interested.
“Best wishes to you.
“Carleton Conne.”
So Mr. Conne was alive and had not forgotten him. Tom wished that the letter had told something about the detective’s rescue and the fate of the spy, but he realized that Secret Service agents could hardly be expected to dwell on their adventures to “ship’s boy” acquaintances, and was it not enough that Mr. Conne remembered him at all, and his wish to serve on an army transport?
He took the letter into the private office to show it to Mr. Burton, resolved now that he would say nothing about his discovery in Schmitt’s cellar, for surely Mr. Conne would be the proper one to give the papers to.
“You remember,” he began, “that I said if I ever heard from Mr. Conne and he offered me a job, I’d like to go. And you said it would be all right.”
Mr. Burton nodded. “And the expected—or the unexpected—has happened,” he added, smiling, as he handed Mr. Conne’s letter back to Tom.
“It’ll be all right, won’t it?” Tom asked.