“Look there, now, Mr. Fairbanks. D’you see where he has signed for his check last week? And I could show you a hundred other signatures. There’s the P in Peters and the same letter in Perrin. They’re like two peas in a pod, ain’t they, now?” “I believe you!” “The little r’s in Perrin are like the little r in Bertholdt and in Peters. D’you see?” “I see.” “That’s your answer. Jim Perrin wrote them four names with his own fist. I’d swear to it.” “Thank you, John,” Ralph replied soberly. “I may have more to say to you about this later. Keep it to yourself.” “Sure, sir, I’ve the tight lip on me,” said the timekeeper. Ralph wished, as he went back to his office, that he had had “the tight lip” as well. He had allowed his tongue to get him in bad with Mr. Barton Hopkins. The supervisor was the kind of man that would not easily forget a slight. “He’ll easily forget that I saved his daughter from that gang yesterday,” thought Ralph. “But he will remember that I spoke slightingly of him to another employee. “I told Zeph something bad was likely to be the word he sent Mr. Adair. Guess the ‘something bad’ may be connected with my peace of mind. I’m going to be on the lookout from now on for Mr. Barton Hopkins to get his gaff into me.” It came sooner than Ralph really expected. CHAPTER VIII A CLASH OF AUTHORITY When Zeph Dallas showed himself in Ralph’s office about noon the latter had several points which he could lay before the enthusiastic amateur sleuth. “But you musn’t go it alone any longer, Zeph,” the young train dispatcher said. “There’s something going to break soon, and Mr. Adair will want to know all you get wise to, and as fast as you discover it. What do you suppose he sends you roosters out along the line for, your health?” Zeph grinned. “I know he is combing every division for information regarding a possible strike. The Great Northern doesn’t want to bring in a private detective agency with their guards if it can be helped. I know.” “All right—you know so much! Listen to this,” and Ralph told him of his discovery through the aid of the old timekeeper. “And now here is this man who was with Andy McCarrey last night.” “Who’s that? Whitey Malone? I just saw him, sobered up, but with two beautiful black eyes.” “We never gave him those,” declared Ralph. “I bet McCarrey pitched into him for losing the list Perrin sent by him. Well, that other man I heard McCarrey call ‘Grif’ must be Griffin Falk, and he acts as McCarrey’s secretary, or right-hand man. Mac is no literary character. He can talk, but the words have to be put into his mouth. They say Grif writes his speeches and handles all his correspondence.” “Then we know quite some to tell Mr. Bob Adair,” said Zeph, with satisfaction.