"tell him that you have been
unsuccessful in finding any clue; that the bonds will almost certainly
be marketed in the city, and that your only hope of tracing them is to
work from the other end. Then pack your bag and go. A carriage will be
ready to take you to the Junction in half an hour."

"Just wait a moment, Mr. Clancy," Rad called after him as he turned
away. He drew a note book from his pocket and ripping out a page
scrawled across the face:

"JACOBY, HAIGHT AND CO.

"_Gentlemen_:--You will oblige me by answering any questions which
the bearer of this note may ask concerning my past transactions
with you.

"RADNOR F. GAYLORD."

"There," said Rad, thrusting it toward him, "kindly make use of that
when you get to Washington, and in the future I should advise you to
base your charges on something a little more substantial."

His manner was insultingly contemptuous, but Clancy swallowed it with
smiling good nature.

"I shall be interested in continuing the investigation," he observed as
he pocketed the paper and withdrew.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ROBBERY REMAINS A MYSTERY

So we got rid of the detective. But matters did not readily settle down
again into their old relations. The Colonel was irritable, and Rad was
moody and sullen. He showed no tendency to confide in me as to the truth
about the ha'nt, and I did not probe the matter further. In a day or so
he brought me three hundred dollars, to cover the amount I had loaned
him, together with the "blackmail," as he insisted upon calling it. The
money, he informed me, was from the proceeds of the bonds he had sold.
He showed me at the same time several letters from his brokers
establishing beyond a doubt that the story he had told was true. As to
the stolen bonds, their whereabouts was as much a mystery as ever, and
Rad appeared to take not the slightest interest in the matter. Since the
detective had been summoned, he had washed his hands of all
responsibility.

I think it was the morning after Clancy's departure that Solomon handed
me a pale blue envelope bearing in the upper left-hand corner the device
of the Post-Dispatch. I laughed as I ripped it open; I had almost
forgotten Terry's existence. It contained a characteristic pencil scrawl
slanting across a sheet of yellow copy paper.

"Arnold Crosby, Esq.
"Turnips Farm, Pumpkin Corners, Va.

"_Dear Sir_:

"Enclosed please