It took but a few moments for Mr. Damsel to reach Room 84, and after
introducing Fotheringham to the detective, left him there.

Fotheringham wore a worried and hunted look. The black rings under his
eyes told of loss of sleep, and his whole demeanor was that of a
discouraged person. Still he bore the keen scrutiny of the detective
without flinching, and looking him squarely in the eye, said:

"Mr. Pinkerton, don't ask me to repeat my story again. I have told it
time after time. I have been cross-questioned, and turned and twisted
until I almost believe I committed the robbery myself, tied my own hands
and feet, put the gag in my own mouth, and hid the money some place."

Mr. Pinkerton did not answer him, but gazing at him with those sharp,
far-seeing eyes, which had ferreted out so many crimes, and had made so
many criminals tremble, took in every detail of Fotheringham's features,
as if reading his very soul. Fotheringham leaned back, closed his eyes
wearily, as if it were a matter of the smallest consequence what might
occur, and remained in that position until Mr. Pinkerton spoke.

"Mr. Fotheringham, I don't believe you had anything to do with the
robbery, except being robbed."

"Thank God for those words, Mr. Pinkerton," exclaimed the messenger in
broken tones, the tears welling to his eyes. "That's the first bit of
comfort I've had since the dastardly villain first knocked me down."

"Can you not give me some peculiarity which you noticed about this
Cummings? How did he talk?"