ua," says I.
"Get busy--slit or quit!"

"Very well," says he, jabbin' the knife under the flap. "To discover the
identity of the next in line!"

"Well?" says I, as he stares at the slip of paper. "Who do you pluck
this time?"

"An enigma, so far as I am concerned," says he. "Listen: 'John Wesley
Pedders, in 1894 cashier of the Merchants' Exchange Bank, at Tullington,
Connecticut.' Ever hear of such a person, Shorty!"

"Not me," says I, "nor the place either."

"Then it remains to be discovered first," says Steele, "whether for
twenty years Pedders has stayed put or not. Haven't a Pathfinder handy,
have you? Never mind, there are plenty at the hotel. And if to-morrow is
such another fine spring day as this, I'll run up there. I'll let you
know the results later; and then, my trusty colleague, we will plot
joyously for the well-being of John Wesley Pedders."

"Huh!" says I. "Don't try to pull any steam yachts or French limousines
on me this time. The kind stuff goes, remember."

"To your acute sense of fitness in such matters, McCabe," says he, "I
bow profoundly," and with a jaunty wave of his hand he drifts out.

Honest, compared to the shifty-eyed, suspicious-actin' party that blew
into my studio a few weeks back, he seems like a kid on a Coney Island
holiday. I expect it's the prospects of easy money that's chirked him up
so; but he sure is a misfit to be subbin' on a deeds-of-kindness job.
That ain't my lookout, though. All I got to do is pass on his plans and
see that he carries 'em out accordin' to specifications. So I don't
even look up this tank station on the map.

A couple of days go by, three, and no bulletin from J. Bayard. Then here
the other mornin' I gets a long distance call. It's from Steele.

"Eh?" says I. "Where the blazes are you?"

"Tullington," says he.

"Oh!" says I. "Still there, are you? Found Pedders?"

"Ye-e-es," says he; "but I am completely at a loss to know what to do
for him. I say, McCabe, couldn't you run up here? It's a curious
situation, and I--well, I need your advice badly. There's a train at
eleven-thirty that connects at Danbury. Couldn't you?"

Well, I hadn't figured on bein' any travelin' inspector when I took this
executor job; but as J. Bayard sends out the S O S so strong I can't
very well duck. Besides, I might have been a little int'rested to know
what he'd dug up.

So about three-fifteen that afternoon finds me pilin' off a branch
accommodation at Tullingto