“That’s his story,” Robert Crane finished, “and don’t forget this; it’s our story as well. He is our man. We trust him; don’t hire a man we can’t. He’s our man. We’ll back him with the last resource we can command!”
A lump rose in Curlie’s throat. He felt that he was about to disgrace himself with tears. So this was Robert Crane, the young man he had feared!
Regaining control of himself, he turned to face the Secret Service man.
“Quite right, Mr. Crane, quite right,” Mr. Simons was saying. “But the young man’s conduct has been—well, irregular. One doesn’t open locked mailsacks with a knife, not as a common thing.
“And this affair,” he leaned suddenly forward. “You are not aware, perhaps, that this innocent looking package contained a king’s ransom in jewels?”
Curlie stared. Crane started to speak, then stopped.
“Fact.” The Secret Service man’s voice cracked like a pistol. “Smuggled in. Part of the Crown Jewels of Russia. Reds over there had ’em. They decided to risk sneaking ’em here to be sold over the grapevine trail. Then, like as not, they’d spend the money trying to make this a Godless country without families or homes.
“And now,” he exclaimed, “for all we know they will succeed! Who has that package now? Tell me that! Who but some Bolshevik? Who dares even guess it is anyone else? And where is our Government’s rightful customs duty on those jewels? Gone. Hundreds of thousands, to say nothing of the inestimable harm that that money will do!”
He reached for his hat. “Well, we’ve got to get that man!” He went stumping out of the room.
“Guess that’s about all.” There was a kindly look on the young manager’s face, as he turned to Curlie. “You need sleep. Better get some. And don’t worry. We’ll fix it, we and God. Don’t ever forget that God is in on every transaction, either for or against us. We try to be on His side.”