The Stolen War-Secret. Arthur B. Reeve
of the electric lamp overhead.
“Sinclair found this thing in his study the next morning,” he explained. “The thieves, whoever they were, must have left it in their hurry to get away after they found the plans.”
I looked at it uncomprehendingly. It was a small box, flattened so that it could be easily carried in a coat-pocket.
Craig opened it. Inside was what seemed to be a little specially constructed dry battery, and in another compartment a most peculiar instrument, something like a diminutive flat telephone transmitter. It was connected by flexible silk-covered wires to ear-pieces that fitted over the head, after the manner of the headgear used by telephone operators or operators in wireless.
“I can make nothing out of it,” confessed Burke, as Kennedy turned the thing over and over, shook it, fitted it on his head, examined it again, and then replaced the whole thing in its neat, compact box.
“I suppose you have no objection to my keeping this for a day or so?” he asked.
“None—if you can tell me what it is,” agreed Burke.
“You are positive that the safe had been opened?” asked Kennedy a moment later.
“We have Sinclair’s word,” asserted Burke. “That is all I know, and I assume that he is telling the truth. There couldn’t be any object in giving the invention to the Government and then robbing himself. No, if you knew Sinclair you’d know that about a thing like this he is as straight as a string. I feel that I can say positively that the papers were in the safe when it was locked by him for the night. He told me he put them there himself. And when he opened the safe in the morning they were gone.
“And, mind you, Kennedy, there wasn’t a mark of any kind on the safe—not a mark. I went over it with a glass and couldn’t find a thing, not a scratch—not even a finger-print—nothing except this queer arrangement which Sinclair himself found.”
“Why,” I exclaimed, “it sounds incredible—supernatural.”
“It does indeed,” asserted Burke. “It’s beyond me.”
Kennedy closed the cover of the little case and slipped the thing into his pocket, still pondering.
“It grows more incredible, too,” pursued Burke, looking at us frankly. “And then, to top it all off, when I do get back to the city I happen to run across you fellows hot on the trail of the death of Valcour herself—whatever she may be or have to do with the case. There’s only one thing Sinclair will not talk about freely and that is women—and this precious crew of Mexican friends of his. I’m afraid we shall have to go it alone on that end of it, without any assistance from him. All I was able to get, besides a word or two from him, was the gossip out there.” He paused, then went on, “I wonder if we can’t pool our interests, Kennedy, and work together on these cases?”
“Burke,” exclaimed Craig, for the moment showing a glimpse of the excitement that was surging through his mind, “I had no idea when I took up this case of Valcour for McBride of the Vanderveer that I should be doing my country a service also. When are you going up to Westport again?”
Burke looked at his watch. He was evidently considering what Kennedy had told him about the Mexican cabaret. It was growing late and there was little chance of his getting anything there now, or in fact tomorrow, until night-time came again.
“I can go tomorrow,” he answered, evidently only too glad to have Kennedy’s co-operation. “I’ll go up there with you myself at any time you say.”
“I shall be ready and meet you at the earliest train,” replied Craig.
Burke extended a hand to each of us as we parted.
Kennedy shook it cordially.
“We must succeed in unraveling this affair now at any cost,” he said simply.
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