N the tonneau of his big limousine—one of the largest in Washington—the usually genial secretary of the treasury displayed a troubled frown, while, so close to his face that the breath of that neighbor's speech rustled his gray side whiskers, he listened to the deductions of the chief of the secret service.
“It's all a process of elimination,” said Boyle, chewing his cigar emphatically. “I'm sorry for poor old Farley, and, except by elimination, we can't get a thing on him. But somebody's got to be the goat, or the administration will catch the Old Harry. These fake notes are all over the place. There aren't so many of them, but they're scattered about everywhere, and the rumor's got out about them— only on the inside of course, but out, all right—and the plain fact is that there isn't any clew as to how they got there. Well, then, Farley had and has facilities that nobody else could have, and that's all there is to it!”
The chief was always direct. He believed in going straight to the point, however brutally. So when the pair arrived at their destination and were finally ushered into Farley's private office, he gave that gentleman eye for eye.
Not so the little secretary of the treasury. One sidelong glance showed him the drawn pallor of the suspected man's careworn face and the stoop of his shoulders, which recent worry had forced there. The secretary kept intact the genuine heart of the old-line politician; he kept it firm, but in the right place, and so he now blustered in his fussy manner to cover a regret quite honestly poignant.
“Mr. Farley,” he finally began, “the government, as you are well aware, is most disturbed. You've no good news, I fear, in this—er—Fillmore note paper?”
Farley shook his tired head.
Boyle continued to regard the superintendent steadily through his sharp eyes that never wavered.
“The treasury department,” said its secretary, “has come to a standstill in the affair. We've—well, we've—well, we've just got to throw up our hands.”
“You mean”
The secretary blew his nose. He had a way of blowing it ostentatiously when he was worried. “Public disgrace threatens us,” said he. “That's what it amounts to. Things can't be hushed up indefinitely. Every bank in the country knows, and when things are once known privately, it's never a long time before they are known publicly, too. The coming elections, if I may speak quite openly”
“Do, please,” said Farley. “But I understand what you're driving at.” He passed a hand across his eyes and tried to smile. “You mean that—that I must go.”
Boyle clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm glad you take it that way!”
But Farley was no fool. He guessed, suddenly, what lay behind the chief detective's masquerade of good-fellowship. To pay the disciplinary penalty for an executive error was one thing, but to be suspected of overt crime was another. Crime—after his long life of denial, of hard devotion to routine duty—after his record that bore only this single blot! His cheeks turned gray. He looked at Boyle with a quick, puzzled gasp:
“Only—why you can't really think I'm—that I'm guilty?”
It was an abrupt climax, but before Boyle could answer, the office door was thrust open. There stood Miss Greene, tight lipped, yet evidently almost bursting with news. Long training made her look only to her employer for permission to speak.
The male trio scowled at her intrusion. Farley's nerves were on edge.
“Well?” he asked sharply.
“There are three men outside, with three plainclothes men besides. They say—that is, one of them says he must see you at once. It's a Mr. Hoagland”
“Hoagland!” shouted the chief of the secret service. “Bring him in!”
“What is it?” gasped Farley. He began to mop his brow.
Boyle made a sapient gesture that meant “Wait and see.” He had no idea what was coming.
The guards did not enter, but Hoagland, smiling profusely, bustled forward at once, his derby hat in one hand. Behind him followed a sturdy, boyish person with frank eyes and a shock of tow-colored hair, and behind him—and quite as if he were glad to accompany them—a broad, big, genial gentleman, carrying a Malacca cane strapped to one wrist, a gentleman immaculately clad in speckless white, whose dark glances flashed from the now incarnadined Miss Greene to the group about the desk, and whose fat hands were lavishly decked with rings.
“Well?” snapped Boyle, who had no intention of betraying any lack of omniscience. “Let's hear what you've got to say, Mr. Hoagland.”
