"The chuckle-headed fools!" he gritted, apostrophizing the
writers of the letters. And then: "Gibbert, I'd like to go into this a
little deeper, if we had time; I'd like to know why in hell every man in
this State with whom we've had a private business arrangement found it
necessary to spread the details out on paper and send them to young
Blount! Here; burn these things as I hand them to you."
The small man struck a match and, using the wide-mouthed metal cuspidor
for an ash-pan, lighted the letters one at a time as they were given to
him. When the cinder skeleton of the final sheet had been crushed into
ashes, he rose from his knees and reached for his hat.
"Any other orders?" he asked.
"No; nothing more. You are reasonably sure that you haven't been
recognized here by any of our local people?"
"I've kept the 'make-up' on most of the time. I've been in Mr. Gantry's
office a couple of times, and in Mr. Kittredge's once, and neither of
them caught on to me."
"That's good. You'd better go now. O'Brien has gone after Gantry and
Kittredge, and I don't care to have them find you here. Better take the
first train back to Chicago. These mutton-headed police here might
possibly get on your track, and we don't want to have to explain
anything to them."
Five minutes after the small man had dropped from the step of the "008,"
to disappear in the box-car shadows, Gantry and Kittredge came down the
yard and entered the private car.
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