“If he would only write that letter,” he muttered, “and I believe he will—­”

A tap at the door followed these words, and two men entered—­both Pinkerton detectives.

One of them carried a bundle in his arms.

As Mr. Pinkerton caught sight of it, his face lightened up.

“Ah!  You did get it?”

“Yes; found them in a ditch the other side of Kirkwood.”

Mr. Pinkerton laughed, and taking the bundle, said: 

“Mr. Damsel said they could not be found; but I knew you, Chip.  It was a good move on your part to go after these clothes without waiting for orders.  You are starting in well, my boy, and if you have the making of a detective in you, this case will bring it out.”

Chip blushed.  Such words of praise from his superior were worth working for.  The youngest man on the force, he had his spurs to win, and the approbation of his chief was reward enough.

The bundle was untied, and disclosed a shirt, a pair of drawers, socks and a dirty handkerchief.  As the clothing fell on the floor, the odor of some sort of liniment filled the room, and on the leg of the drawers, below the knee, a stain was seen.  Examining it more closely, a little clotted blood was seen.  The stain extended half way around the leg, and showed that the cut or bruise was quite an extensive one.

“No wonder he limped,” said Mr. Pinkerton, as he dropped the drawers and picked up the handkerchief.

The handkerchief, a common linen one, had evidently been used as a bandage, for it was stained with the liniment, and covered with blood clots.  In one corner had been written a name, but the only letters now readable were “W—­r—­k.”

This was placed on the table and the shirt carefully examined.

Nothing, not even the maker’s name, could be seen.  It was a cheap shirt, such as could be bought at any store which labels everything belonging to a man as “Gents’ Furnishing.”  The socks were common, and like thousands of similar socks.

“Not much of a find, Chip—­the letters on the handkerchief can be found in a hundred different names—­a sore knee is covered by a pair of trousers, and one out of every ten men you meet, limps.”

The other detective, who had all this time been silent, now laid some Adams Express letter-heads on the table.  On these were written “J.  B. Barrett,” in all forms of chirography—­several sheets were covered with the name.

“Where did you get these?”

“Out of Fotheringham’s trunk, in his room.”

“By Jove, what a consummate actor that man is.  Do you know, boys, up to this minute, I firmly believed that messenger was innocent—­I have been sold like an ordinary fool,” and Mr. Pinkerton looked at the tell-tale papers admiringly, for, although he felt a trifle chagrined at being taken in so nicely, he could not but pay tribute to the man who did it, for the man that could get the better of “Billy” Pinkerton, must be one of extraordinary ability.