“Fritz offered me $5,000 for my share if I would only tell him when the papers reached the office. He said that was all they needed to know. I could have used the $5,000, but I told him I wouldn’t do such a thing. Then a couple of days later I got a letter from him. It was mailed somewhere over in Maryland and he repeated his offer and threatened me with exposing an old family scandal.” “That was the letter Condon Adams found,” exclaimed Bob, and the filing chief nodded. “I was careless about that. I tossed it in the fireplace, but didn’t make sure that it had been consumed.” “But did you supply your brother with the necessary information?” asked Bob, pressing hard for more concrete information. Arthur Jacobs lowered his head. “Fritz came back the other night. He was in a terrible rage. He had promised to get this information from me, and had failed. You’ll never know the fear I’ve always had of Fritz. He was bigger, older and he always bullied me. He threatened to beat me to death and I finally told him what he wanted to know.” Bob saw tears welling into the chief clerk’s eyes and he turned his own face away, for it had not been easy to hear this confession. When the young federal agent finally looked back, Arthur Jacobs was composed and calm once more. “When did you give him this information?” “It was the night before you caught Fritz in the office,” replied Jacobs. “Have you seen him since then?” “Yes, he came to my apartment after his escape and I sheltered him for a few hours. I didn’t want to, but he was armed and forced me to do it. That’s all I know about it.” “Don’t you know who’s behind Fritz? Who is supplying him with the money?” Arthur Jacobs shook his head. “I didn’t even see any money,” he said bitterly. “Fritz said that would come later after this thing had been forgotten.” Bob felt sorry for the little man, for he knew now that Jacobs had been the unwilling dupe of an older and bullying brother. There was one bit of information Bob must have, one thing that was vital. “Did you save the envelope in which the letter Fritz sent you from Maryland was mailed?” he asked. Jacobs ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I can’t remember.” “Did you toss it in the fireplace?” “No, I don’t think so. I probably dropped it in the wastebasket. The maid cleans my apartment each day.” “Then where would this type of rubbish go?” “Down to the janitor, who would burn it in the incinerator.” Bob reached for the telephone on the other table. “Give me the number of your apartment house,” he urged, and Jacobs supplied the needed information. The building superintendent answered and Bob’s words fairly tumbled over the wire. “This is Bob Houston, a federal agent speaking,” he said. “Get hold of your janitor at once. Don’t allow him to burn any more waste paper or refuse of any type from the floor on which Arthur Jacobs lives. I’ll be there within half an hour to check up on you.”