entered the room, but with a gesture of hopeless failure he sank into a
chair and awaited his chief's pleasure.

"Chip, I've got a starter."

With an indulgent smile Chip nodded his head, but failed to exhibit any
extraordinary interest.

Mr. Pinkerton's eyes twinkled. He understood the situation, but time was
valuable and he could not waste any in humorous by-play. So without
further parleying he handed Chip the tell-tale letter.

The young detective, almost from the first word, put the letter down as
a practical joke, perpetrated on the newspaper, but as the missive
progressed he became interested, and when he had reached that portion
which told of the package every fiber of his detective instinct was
alive, and Mr. Pinkerton had no need of pointing to the precious parcel
as corroborative evidence that the letter was genuine.

In an instant Chip was examining the contents. Every portion of the
revolver, billy and letterheads was searched with deepest scrutiny. The
printed sheet of ballad music was picked up, the verses read and the
sheet turned.

An exclamation burst from his lips, as his eye caught the words, written
in lead pencil, "----Chestnut Street," and placing it beside the letter,
he saw it was written by the same hand. "The devil! Here is a starter!"

His face glowed with animation, his eyes had the alert look of a hound
on a hot scent, and carefully noting the number in his memorandum book,