Chapter XV: The First Case

Sheridan was assigned to the New York division of the postal secret service, and, oddly enough, the first case that he was sent to investigate was at the branch at which he had served as carrier.

"Sheridan," said the chief inspector, "run up to Station X Y right away. There’s some trouble up there. Go and straighten it out."

Wondering what his trouble could be, and which one of his former comrades was concerned in it, Owen jumped aboard a subway express, and half an hour later stepped into the private office of Superintendent Henderson, of Branch X Y.

Henderson’s greeting was flatteringly deferential. No matter how honest a postmaster may be, he likes to have the good will of the special investigators. Owen in his new role was, therefore, considered a person of some importance by his former boss.

"How do you do, Mr. Sheridan?" said he. "May I offer you my heartiest congratulations upon your promotion?" He extended his hand somewhat hesitatingly, remembering the bad turn he had once done Owen by peremptorily transferring him from his route.

But Owen did not bear any grudge. Henderson, except for that one act of injustice, had always been fairly decent to him. And, besides, the inspector was too happy over the realization of his ambition to bear ill will toward anybody. He cordially grasped the hand which the superintendent held halfway toward him. "Thank you," he said, in acknowledgment of the congratulations. "I shall never forget the many little kindnesses you showed me when I was connected with this branch."

Henderson looked at him keenly, wondering whether there was anything ironical about this remark; he was relieved to see that there was nothing at all suspicious about the inspector’s frank smile.

"I understand that there’s some trouble up here," said Owen, getting down to business. "The chief sent me up here to investigate."

The superintendent nodded. "Yes, it’s a very mysterious case, Mr. Sheridan. I can give you the details in a few words. A man named Walter K. Sammis---- I beg your pardon?"

Owen had been unable to refrain from an ejaculation of astonishment at the mention of the name of Dallas Worthington’s employer. Could it be possible that he had anything to do with this case?

"I didn’t mean to interrupt you," he said. "Please go on. You mean Sammis, the real-estate man, I presume?"

"Yes. He came around to this office at five o’clock yesterday evening, accompanied by another man--the Reverend Atkinson Moore. They came to see me with reference to a letter which they had dropped in the street letter box outside Sammis’ office--a letter in a pink envelope. Mr. Sammis explained to me that the letter contained a hundred-dollar bill which the clergyman was sending to a poor family in Pennsylvania."

"He was sending a hundred dollars in currency in an unregistered letter?" exclaimed Owen, with some astonishment.

"Yes," answered the superintendent, with a smile; "the reverend gentleman has great faith evidently in the infallibility of Uncle Sam’s post office; but his friend, Mr. Sammis, is not so trustful. After dropping the letter in the box, Mr. Moore went into the real-estate office to visit Sammis, who is a member of his church, and happened to mention sending the money; whereupon the real-estate man told him what a rash thing he had done to send money in that unsafe manner, and insisted that he should try to get the letter back. They came around here to stop the letter and have it registered before it went out. Of course, I consented to this. I told them that the man who attended to that box had not come in with the last collection, and asked them to wait until he arrived."

The superintendent smiled grimly. "And now, here comes the mystery, Mr. Sheridan. When the carrier came in and we went to look for that letter, it wasn’t to be found. There was no pink envelope in his bag."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Owen, who had not been in the secret service long enough to conceal his emotions.

"We searched through the contents of the bag four times," Henderson went on. "We examined the bottom of the bag carefully, thinking it might possibly have stuck there; we went to the street letter box to see whether the pink envelope might not have been left behind. Not a trace of it could we find anywhere."

"And Mr. Moore is quite certain that he dropped it in the box?" asked Owen.

"Absolutely positive."

"And quite sure that it was a pink envelope?"

"Yes, he is certain of that."

"Who’s the carrier who made the collections, Mr. Henderson?"

"James Andrews."

"‘Pop’ Andrews!" exclaimed Owen. "Then that disposes of the theory that the letter was stolen on the way from the street box to the post office. I’m sure that Pop is too honest to have stolen it himself, and too careful to let anybody else take it from his bag. What has Pop to say about the matter, Mr. Henderson?"

"He hasn’t given us any explanation. He’s all broken up about the matter. The poor fellow realizes that he’s placed in a nasty position. Nevertheless, it seems to me that he’s holding something back. I mean to say that there’s something about his manner that sort of gives me the idea that he knows a little more than he cares to tell about that letter."

"May I see him?" asked Inspector Sheridan.

"Yes; I’ll send for him."

Carrier Andrews entered the superintendent’s private office looking very worried and upset. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment when he discovered that Sheridan was the inspector assigned to the case.

"Now, Pop," said Owen gently to the veteran postman, "what can you tell me about this pink letter? Any help that you can give me I’ll greatly appreciate."

The old man looked at the young inspector pityingly. "Owen--er--I beg your pardon, I mean Mr. Sheridan--I’m mighty sorry that they sent you up to handle this case, because I’ve decided, after thinking it over, that I’d better tell the whole truth, and I’m afraid it’s going to hit you pretty hard."

"Hit _me_ hard!" exclaimed Owen, in astonishment.

"Yes, sir. I’ve kept quiet until now--first, because in order to tell the truth I’ll have to confess to having violated the rules, which I hate to do, having been so long in the service; secondly, because I don’t like the idea of causing trouble to the young lady."

"The young lady!" Owen couldn’t help breaking in.

"Yes. As I say, I’ve decided that I’d better tell the truth," said Pop Andrews. "I do know something about that letter. There was a pink envelope in the box when I went to collect the mail. I gave it to the young lady who was standing at the box waiting for me. At first I didn’t want to give it to her, knowing it was against the rules, but she begged so hard, and finally, when she began to cry, telling me that it meant all the world to her to get that letter back, I decided that I’d take a chance, and I handed her the pink envelope."

"She told you that it was hers, of course, Pop?" said Owen.

"Yes; she said that she’d dropped it in the box only five minutes before, and that it was a letter that would cause a lot of trouble if it was sent, so she wanted it back. I believed her, and I let her have it, not dreaming that it wasn’t hers--that she was working a game on me."

"And I suppose you have no idea who this young woman was, have you, Pop?"

Once more the gray-haired carrier looked pityingly at the young inspector. "Yes, Mr. Sheridan, I have. I hate to tell you, knowing what she is to you, but it was the young lady who works in Mr. Sammis’ office, Miss Dallas Worthington."

Walking so quickly that his pace was almost a run, Owen Sheridan hurried around to Walter K. Sammis’ real-estate office. It was past ten o’clock, and Dallas was usually at her typewriter by nine; but there was no sign of her now. Her employer stood in the outer office, and looked at Owen questioningly.

"Hasn’t Miss Worthington got down yet, Mr. Sammis?" the young man asked.

"No, she hasn’t, and I can’t understand what’s keeping her."

Without stopping to say another word, Owen hurried around to Dallas’ boarding house. It was ridiculous, of course, to suspect that she could have stolen that letter; but the mystery must be cleared up immediately.

"Where’s Miss Worthington?" he inquired of the landlady, who came to the door in response to his ring.

"I couldn’t tell you, Mr. Sheridan," the woman answered; "she left here last night."

"Left last night!" repeated Owen blankly.

"Yes; she came in here just before supper time, rushed up to her room, packed her suit case, and hurried out of the house as if a thousand demons were after her."