eyes he would have laughed as heartily as it was in his power to
laugh. Yet such was the fact. A little man who looked less like a
detective than a commercial traveler selling St. Peter's Oil or
some other cheerful concoction, with manners as gentle and a voice
as soft as a spring zephyr, who always took off his hat when he
came into a business office, seemingly bashful to the point of
self-effacement, was the one who snatched Charles F. Dodge from the
borders of Mexico and held him in an iron grip when every influence
upon which Hummel could call for aid, from crooked police
officials, corrupt judges, and a gang of cutthroats under the guise
of a sheriff's posse, were fighting for his release.

Jesse Blocher is not employed in New York County, and for business
reasons he does not wish his present address known. When he comes
to New York he occasionally drops into the writer's office for a
cigar and a friendly chat about old times. And as he sits there
and talks so modestly and with such quiet humor about his
adventures with the Texas Rangers among the cactus-studded plains
of the Lone Star State, it is hard, even for one who knows the
truth, to realize that this man is one of the greatest of
detectives, or rather one of the most capable, resourceful, adroit,
and quick-witted knights of adventure who ever set forth upon a
seemingly impossible errand.

It is unnecessary to state just how the District Attorney
discovered the existence of "Jesse," as we knew him. It is enough
to say that on Saturday morning, July 23, 1904, he was furnished
with the proper credentials and given instructions to proceed at
once to New Orleans, Louisiana, and "locate," if it were humanly
possible to do so, Charles F. Dodge, under indictment for perjury,