“Mr. Black,” exclaimed Jack, “this is not your paper, is it?”

Somewhat impatiently the manager glanced up. “The ‘Bulletin’? No.”

“Were you reading it yesterday, sir?”

“Well, I don’t see what you are driving at—but, no. It was probably left here by Smith, one of the express clerks next door. He was in for a while yesterday on some telegraph money-order business. Yes, he did have it in his hand, now I remember. But why?”

At the mention of Smith’s name Jack started, and there immediately came to him a remembrance of having a few days previously seen the express clerk on a street corner in earnest conversation with Hansen, the discharged janitor.

In suppressed excitement he asked, “When was Smith here, Mr. Black? What time?”

The manager smiled sardonically, and turned back to his work. “No; you can’t fasten it on Smith,” 73 he said shortly. “It was after he went out that I returned the box to the safe. But, if it’s any good to you—he was in here from about five-thirty to ten minutes to six, and was talking with one of the boys in the outer office when I left.”

“And Mr. Black, were you outside during the time Smith was in here?”

“No, I—Yes, I was, too. About a quarter to six I was over at the speaking-tube for a minute.

“But enough of this nonsense,” the manager added sharply. “The box was in the safe when I closed it. Don’t bother me any further with your pretense of investigating. I don’t believe it is sincere.”

Despite this cutting declaration