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Page 51
"Well, take care that she doesn't see you shadowing Ostrello."
"I'm wise," answered the shadower, smiling, and the next moment he was
gone. He was not flustered by what was before him, for he had been
shadowing people for eleven years, and as long as there was five
dollars per day and his expenses in the work, he was willing to
continue indefinitely.
With the shadower gone, Adam Adams meditated for a moment and then
donned his walking coat and his hat. In his pockets he placed several
large but rather flat packages.
"I am going out, Miss Harringford," he said to the clerk. "If I am not
back by five o'clock, you may lock up and go home. Be on hand as usual
in the morning."
Down in the street he hopped aboard a passing car and rode eight
blocks. He entered an office building, went up in an elevator to the
third floor, and took himself to a suite of offices occupied by certain
United States secret service officers.
"I want to see Mr. Breslow," he said, and was shown to a private
apartment, where an elderly man sat, studying several reports.
"How are you, Adams!" was the greeting.
"Rather busy to-day, but what can I do for you?"
"I want to sell you some bank bills," was the reply, and Adam Adams
dumped the package on the desk. Mr. Breslow opened it and examined the
contents.
"By the jumping Judas! Where did you get those? Say, this is worth
while."
"I guess you haven't rounded up quite as many as I have, have you?"
said the detective, with a grim smile.
"As many? Why, man, we've only run across sixteen so far, and you've
got thirty. They are such a clever counterfeit that even the banks get
nipped. This is wonderful! I didn't know you were following this
trail. Why didn't you say something before? Or maybe you wanted to
spring a surprise, and make some of the boys, down here feel cheap."
"No, it was nothing but blind luck. I wasn't on the trail at all. I
simply stumbled over the bills."
"Did you get your man?"
"There was no man to get."
"Do you mean to say you found the bills?"
"I did and I didn't. They were in the safe of a man who was murdered.
I guess I'll have to tell you the best part of the story," and Adam
Adams did so. "This is, of course, confidential," he went on.
"Trust me for that, Adams. Strange complication, as you just remarked.
I suppose you are going to follow up the murder mystery. Will you
follow this up, too?"
"I think so. I can't get it out of my head that the two are related to
each other."
"More than likely. Now, you just said you wanted to know something."
"I want to know about this John S. Watkins, of Bryport."
"Um! If I give you his record, you'll of course keep it to yourself.
You know how the department is about such things?"
"You are safe with me."
"I'll have the record brought in."
There was a wait of several minutes, and then a big book was produced
from one of the safes.
"Here you are, Adams: John S. Watkins, Bryport. Born at New Haven,
October 4, 1862. Former occupation, model maker and cabinet maker.
Private detective for four years, and one year with the Cassell agency.
Entered the United States service three years ago. Never been
advanced. Cases 45,254; 47,732; 46,829. Wait till I see what those
cases are."
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