without waiting instructions from Mr. Pinkerton, he picked up his hat
and hurriedly left the room.

Mr. Pinkerton, in full sympathy with his subordinate, lit a cigar, and
settled back for a comfortable smoke until Chip made his report.

Chip, regaining the street, engaged a hack standing near the hotel, and
stopping it a short distance from the number he wanted on Chestnut
street, walked the remaining distance to the house.

A sign "Board by the week or day," and another one, "Furnished rooms to
let," showed it to be an ordinary boarding-house. Chip had fully decided
within himself, during the ride, that the men who had left the parcel
had also left St. Louis. While it was not so much an improbability that
the men would still be in the city, it was far more probable that they
would put some distance between themselves and the scene of their
exploit. For this reason, Chip decided that a plain course would result
in no unfortunate mishap or premature flushing of the game.

Ascending the steps, he rang the bell.

The landlady of the house herself opened the door.

Before Chip could speak, she said:

"You're a detective, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Chip, somewhat surprised, and regretting immediately that he
had not made his entrance in a more detective-like manner.