“Quite so, but even in that case wouldn’t you be punished if it became known that you had shown Mr. Ricketts a private despatch entrusted to your care?”
“Certainly,” admitted the telegraphist, exhibiting more and more uneasiness, “but I have not shown your telegram to anybody, and what I told you was entirely in confidence.”
“Oh, you need have no fear of my rounding on you. I am merely endeavouring to put you in possession of that dollar without getting your neck in a noose. Don’t you see that you are placing yourself entirely at Mr. Ricketts’ mercy?”
“But you,” protested the frightened young man, “advised me to do so.”
“Undoubtedly. I want you to get that dollar, but not to place yourself in jeopardy. From what I saw of Ricketts this morning, I should not like to be in his power, yet his dollar is just as good as any other man’s dollar, and I want you to detach it from him with safety, and profit to yourself. Let me have another telegraph blank.”
Stranleigh wrote rapidly—
“Pinkerton Detective Agency, Chicago.
“I want to be put into communication with Stanley Armstrong, who left Chicago on foot ten days ago, for the West, and I am willing to pay one hundred dollars for the job.
“Edmund Stranleigh.
“White’s Hotel, Bleachers.”