e could get. I must find Baker. He
was in no condition, mentally or physically, to wander about at random."

The package in question, Bart decided, held papers. It had been given
him in trust, and he could not open it without Baker's permission. He
replaced it in his pocket and went forth.

Bart visited all of Baker's old familiar haunts in the freight yards,
but found no trace of him. Then he called at the Sharp Corner. Its
proprietor claimed that Lem Wacker had not been there since noon.

Bart spoke to two of the yards night watchmen. He described Baker, and
requested them to speak to him if they ran across him, and to tell him
that Bart Stirling was very anxious to see him up at his house.

Affairs at the little express office had settled down to routine when,
one morning, Darry Haven dropped into the place.

He found Bart engrossed in reading a letter very carefully. Its envelope
lay on the desk. Glancing at it casually, Darry saw that it was from
express headquarters.

"Anything wrong?" he inquired, as Bart folded up the letter and placed
it in his pocket.

"Not with me, anyway," replied Bart with a smile. "There is something
wrong at Cardysville, a hundred miles or so down the main line," he went
on.

"And how does that interest you, Bart?"

"Why, it seems I have got to go down there on some business for the
Company."

"To-day?"

"The sooner the better, that letter says. It is from the inspector. It
is quite flattering to me, for he starts out with complimenting the
excellent business system this office has always sustained."

"H'm!" chuckled Darry--"any mention of your valued extra help?"

"No, but that may come along, for you have got to represent me here
again to-day, and possibly to-morrow."

"Is that so?" said Darry. "Well, I guess I can arrange."

"You see," explained Bart, "the letter is a sort of confidential one.
Reading between the lines, I assume that a certain Peter Pope, now
express agent at Cardysville, and evidently recently appointed, is a
relative of one of the officials of the company. Anyway, he has been
running--or not running--things for a week. The inspector writes that
the man has very little to do, for it is a small station, but that very
little he appears to do very badly."

"How, Bart?"

"His reports and returns are all mixed up. He doesn't have the least
idea of how to run things intelligently. The inspector asks me to go and
see him, take some of our blanks, open a