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 incumbency at the executive mansion. There were offices for the management of the company's business in Philadelphia, Washington, 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 principal offices were.
He made the ****** 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 ******* that you could to Mr. Pinkerton. Won't you come into my private office? We can talk more at ease in there."
He led the way into an adjoining room which had two windows looking down into Broadway; an oblong table, heavy, brown, smoothly polished; four leather-backed chairs; and some pictures of the Civil War battles in which the North had been victorious. Butler followed doubtfully. He hated very much to take any one into his confidence in regard to Aileen. He was not sure that he would, even now.
He wanted to "look these fellys over," as he said in his mind. He would decide then what he wanted to do. He went to one of the windows and looked down into the street, where there was a perfect swirl of omnibuses and vehicles of all sorts. Mr. Martinson quietly closed the door.
"Now then, if there's anything I can do for you," Mr. Martinson paused. He thought by this little trick to elicit Buder's real name--it often "worked"-- but in this instance the name was not forthcoming. Butler was too shrewd.
"I'm not so sure that I want to go into this," said the old man solemnly. "Certainly not if there's any risk of the thing not being handled in the right way. There's somethin' I want to find out about--somethin' that I ought to know; but it's a very private matter with me, and--" He paused to think and conjecture, looking at Mr. Martinson the while. The latter understood his peculiar state of mind. He had seen many such cases.
"Let me say right here, to begin with, Mr.--"
"Scanlon," interpolated Butler, easily; "that's as good a name as any if you want to use one. I'm keepin' me own to meself for the present."
"Scanlon," continued Martinson, easily. "I really don't care whether it's your right name or not. I was just going to say that it might not be necessary to have your right name under any circumstances--it all depends upon what you want to know. But, so far as your private affairs are concerned, they are as safe with us, as if you had never told them to any one. Our business is built upon confidence, and we never betray it. We wouldn't dare. We have men and women who have been in our employ for over thirty years, and we never retire any one except for cause, and we don't pick people who are likely to need to be retired for cause. Mr. Pinkerton is a good judge of men. There are others here who consider that they are.
