Part 35 (2/2)

”They wouldn't want a man around as a sort of guide and adviser, would they, mother?” put in Callum.

”I might offer my services in that capacity myself,” observed Owen, reservedly.

”I'm sure I don't know,” returned Mrs. Butler, smiling, and at the same time chewing a l.u.s.ty mouthful. ”You'll have to ast 'em, my sons.”

Aileen still persisted. She did not want to go. It was too sudden. It was this. It was that. Just then old Butler came in and took his seat at the head of the table. Knowing all about it, he was most anxious to appear not to.

”You wouldn't object, Edward, would you?” queried his wife, explaining the proposition in general.

”Object!” he echoed, with a well simulated but rough attempt at gayety.

”A fine thing I'd be doing for meself--objectin'. I'd be glad if I could get shut of the whole pack of ye for a time.”

”What talk ye have!” said his wife. ”A fine mess you'd make of it livin'

alone.”

”I'd not be alone, belave me,” replied Butler. ”There's many a place I'd be welcome in this town--no thanks to ye.”

”And there's many a place ye wouldn't have been if it hadn't been for me. I'm tellin' ye that,” retorted Mrs. Butler, genially.

”And that's not stretchin' the troot much, aither,” he answered, fondly.

Aileen was adamant. No amount of argument both on the part of Norah and her mother had any effect whatever. Butler witnessed the failure of his plan with considerable dissatisfaction, but he was not through. When he was finally convinced that there was no hope of persuading her to accept the Mollenhauer proposition, he decided, after a while, to employ a detective.

At that time, the reputation of William A. Pinkerton, of detective fame, and of his agency was great. The man had come up from poverty through a series of vicissitudes to a high standing in his peculiar and, to many, distasteful profession; but to any one in need of such in themselves calamitous services, his very famous and decidedly patriotic connection with the Civil War and Abraham Lincoln was a recommendation. He, or rather his service, had guarded the latter all his stormy inc.u.mbency at the executive mansion. There were offices for the management of the company's business in Philadelphia, Was.h.i.+ngton, and New York, to say nothing of other places. Butler was familiar with the Philadelphia sign, but did not care to go to the office there. He decided, once his mind was made up on this score, that he would go over to New York, where he was told the princ.i.p.al offices were.

He made the simple excuse one day of business, which was common enough in his case, and journeyed to New York--nearly five hours away as the trains ran then--arriving at two o'clock. At the offices on lower Broadway, he asked to see the manager, whom he found to be a large, gross-featured, heavy-bodied man of fifty, gray-eyed, gray-haired, puffily outlined as to countenance, but keen and shrewd, and with short, fat-fingered hands, which drummed idly on his desk as he talked. He was dressed in a suit of dark-brown wool cloth, which struck Butler as peculiarly showy, and wore a large horseshoe diamond pin. The old man himself invariably wore conservative gray.

”How do you do?” said Butler, when a boy ushered him into the presence of this worthy, whose name was Martinson--Gilbert Martinson, of American and Irish extraction. The latter nodded and looked at Butler shrewdly, recognizing him at once as a man of force and probably of position. He therefore rose and offered him a chair.

”Sit down,” he said, studying the old Irishman from under thick, bushy eyebrows. ”What can I do for you?”

”You're the manager, are you?” asked Butler, solemnly, eyeing the man with a shrewd, inquiring eye.

”Yes, sir,” replied Martinson, simply. ”That's my position here.”

”This Mr. Pinkerton that runs this agency--he wouldn't be about this place, now, would he?” asked Butler, carefully. ”I'd like to talk to him personally, if I might, meaning no offense to you.”

”Mr. Pinkerton is in Chicago at present,” replied Mr. Martinson. ”I don't expect him back for a week or ten days. You can talk to me, though, with the same confidence that you could to him. I'm the responsible head here. However, you're the best judge of that.”

Butler debated with himself in silence for a few moments, estimating the man before him. ”Are you a family man yourself?” he asked, oddly.

”Yes, sir, I'm married,” replied Martinson, solemnly. ”I have a wife and two children.”

Martinson, from long experience conceived that this must be a matter of family misconduct--a son, daughter, wife. Such cases were not infrequent.

”I thought I would like to talk to Mr. Pinkerton himself, but if you're the responsible head--” Butler paused.

”I am,” replied Martinson. ”You can talk to me with the same freedom that you could to Mr. Pinkerton. Won't you come into my private office?

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