An hour later found Adam Adams on a train bound for Bryport.  He reached that city in the evening, and from a directory he learned where the secret service man resided.  A street car brought him to within two blocks of the dwelling.  It was a building of no mean pretentions and on a corner which looked to be valuable.  Walking along the side street he saw that two domestics were at work in the kitchen and dining room.

“He certainly lives in style,” mused Adam Adams.  “Wonder if he manages it on twelve hundred a year?”

As it was a warm night the windows were open and by going close to the house he could hear the conversation being carried on by the servants as they moved back and forth between the two rooms.

From their talk, he learned that Mrs. Watkins and her two daughters were at Saratoga, and that it was expected that the husband would join his family there soon.

“And we’ll have good times when he’s gone, ain’t that so, Caddie?” said one of the domestics.

“That we will,” was the answer.  “Better times than now, anyway, when you can’t tell when he is coming in and when he is going out.  It is a queer way he has with him lately.”

“I guess he is worried over his money.”

“Why, what do you know about that, Caddie Dix?”

“What do I know, Nellie Casey?  Tim Corey told me Mrs. Watkins didn’t git a cent of the old grandfather’s money, although she said she did, and so did the master say so.  It all went to the other part of the family.”

“Then where did Mr. Watkins git his money, I’d like to know.”

“Don’t ask me.  Tim says he is flush enough at the club and other places.  The government must pay him more than most folks imagine.”

“Is Tim goin’ to the Rosebud’s picnic?”

“Yes, and Dan’s goin’ too, and Dan wants me to bring you,” went on one of the domestics, and then the talk drifted into a channel which was of no further interest to Adam Adams.

He rightfully surmised that John Watkins was not home and was somewhat puzzled to decide what he should do next.  It was a long journey from Bryport to Sidham, and it was a question if he could accomplish anything at the scene of the tragedy during the night.

“Perhaps it will pay just as well to go to a hotel and go to bed,” he told himself.

He had just come out to the corner of the street and was halting at the curb, when he saw two men approaching.  One of the pair was John Watkins, and the other was a heavy-set stranger, with bushy hair and a round, red nose and mutton-chop whiskers.

“Here we are, Styles,” said John Watkins.  “It’s a little late, but I reckon the girls can fix us up something to eat.  It’s better than going to a restaurant.”

“Anything will do me, if you’ve got a glass of ale to go with it,” was the reply.

“Got to have a real Englishman’s drink, eh?” said the secret service man, with a short laugh.  “Well, I’ve remembered you and I can fix you up to the queen’s taste.  Come on inside.”  And then the pair entered the house.