Sometimes in the course of his experience,a detective, while engaged inferreting out the mystery of one crime, runsinadvertently upon the clue to another. Butrarely has this been done in a manner moreunexpected or with attendant circumstances ofgreater interest than in the instance I am nowabout to relate.
For some time the penetration of certainWashington officials had been baffled by theclever devices of a gang of counterfeiters whohad inundated the western portion of Massachusettswith spurious Treasury notes. Someof the best talent of the Secret Service had beenexpended upon the matter, but with no favorable[2]result, when, one day, notice was receivedat Washington that a number of suspicious-lookingletters, addressed to the simple initials,X. Y. Z., Brandon, Mass., were being dailyforwarded through the mails of that region;and it being deemed possible that a clue had atlast been offered to the mystery in hand, I wassent northward to investigate.
It was in the middle of June, 1881, and theweather was simply delightful. As I steppedfrom the cars at Brandon and looked up thelong straight street with its double row ofmaple trees sparkling fresh and beautiful in thenoonday sun, I thought I had never seen aprettier village or entered upon any enterprisewith a lighter or more hopeful heart.
Intent on my task, I went straight to thepost-office, and after coming to an understandingwith the postmaster, proceeded at once tolook over the mail addressed to the mysteriousX. Y. Z.
I found it to consist entirely of letters. Theywere about a dozen in number, and were, withone exception, similar in general appearanceand manner of direction, though inscribed in[3]widely different handwritings, and posted fromvarious New England towns. The exceptionto which I allude had these few extra wordswritten in the lower left-hand corner of theenvelope: "To be kept till called for." As Ibundled up the letters preparatory to thrustingthem back into the box, I noticed that the latterwas the only one in a blue envelope, all theothers being in the various shades of cream-colorand buff.
"Who is in the habit of calling for theseletters?" I asked of the postmaster.
"Well," said he, "I don't know his name.The fact is nobody knows him around here.He usually drives up in a buggy about nightfall,calls for letters addressed to X. Y. Z., andhaving got them, whips up his horse and is offagain before one can say a word."
"Describe him," said I.
"Well, he is very lean and very lank. Inappearance he is both green and awkward. Hiscomplexion is pale, almost sickly. Were itnot for his eye, which is keen and twinkling, Ishould call him an extremely inoffensive-lookingperson."[4]
The ty