Late in the afternoon the Superintendent grew impatient, but the head of the Chicago agency assured him that a detective would reach the river in time to take the Midnight Express on Monday night. When the last train over the Alton left Chicago that Sunday night, with no detective on board, the Superintendent went swearing to bed. When all the morning trains pulled out on Monday, bringing no help, the Superintendent said, over the wire, to Watchem, that he would give the business to Theil. Whereupon, old man Watchem reached over to Indianapolis, touched the President, and the President said, over the wire, to the Superintendent, “Leave it all to Watchem,” and he left it, and sulked in his tent the day. The Michigan pines were making long shadows on Monday afternoon when Billy Watchem came to the lake-side and caught a wire from his father, bidding him hurry home. “Step lively,” said Billy to his burglar, “you’re not the only robber on the road. There is work for me near the home office;” and so the men made haste. The lamps had been lighted about the post office when young Watchem rushed into the office of the Chicago & Alton and asked for a special engine to carry him to East St. Louis. In his haste he got on the wrong spur, and stumbled over a little, inexpensive, but extremely officious official, whose business it is to pass upon the credentials of country editors and see that the company’s advertisements are properly printed. “For whom do you want a special?” asked the keeper of the clippings. “For myself; that’s ‘‘whom.’” Now, the keeper of the clippings gave the young man one withering glance, and turned away with a hauteur in the presence of which the President would have paled, as the morning star pales before the rising sun. At that moment a comfortable looking man stepped from the elevator. That was the little man’s chief. “Hello, Billy,” said the General Passenger Agent, giving the young detective a glad hand, “are you all packed?” “All packed,” said Billy, glancing at a hand grip that till now had been hidden beneath a fall overcoat that hung on his arm. “Then let us be off. We’ve got a special engine and Pullman car waiting at the station for you,” and the two men went down together. “Now, have I made of myself an ass?” mused the keeper of the clippings. “I would have wagered my position that he was the editor of the Litchfield Lamplight, and he goes to the river by special train over our road. Ay, over the Alton,” and he closed his desk with a bang. “I want you to make a mile a minute to-night,” said the General Passenger Agent, offering a cigar to the engineer, as the slim eight-wheeler moved out of the station shed.