Buck Hawk, Detective | Page 9

take charge of an instrument, during the Bi-Centennial week,
during each forenoon, to "spell" the different operators, and in the
afternoons resume his messenger duties.
There being more money for him by the change, Turk went to work.
He was pretty well versed in telegraphy, and his first forenoon's work
went off satisfactorily, and he continued in the capacity of an operator
the balance of the week.

The next week was Bi-Centennial week, and there was an extra amount
of messages to be received and transmitted.
Tuesday noon, just before he was about to yield his instrument to
another operator, two messages came, which somewhat surprised him,
as he transferred them to paper.
The longest one was directed to Jerome St. Clair and read as follows:
"I am coming to you for protection. There is no room for me, on the sea,
any longer. Besides. I have had grave apprehensions about my child.
Expect me at any time. I have no regular schedule.
"Uriah Evelyn."
"Must be the purty pal's dad comin' back," Turk muttered. "Thar's
sumthin' secret 'bout that gal, an' I wouldn't mind knowin' it. Reckon I
don't want to take no messages up there, though."
The other message came a few minutes later, and was addressed to
"Fred St. Clair, No.-- Market street, up-stairs."
It was dated from New York, and ran as follows:
"FRED:-- Cannot do anything with them here. Will bring them back.
To-night, at the Social."
There was no signature, but the fact that both messages were for St.
Clair, rather aroused the young messenger's curiosity.
"One is to the old boss, and t'other is to a young St. Clair," he muttered.
"Wonder ef the young and the old is related! and what it is the New
York chap can't do anything with, over there. Mebbe the diamonds!"
The idea struck him with force enough to leave a lasting impression
upon his mind.
There was just a possibility, he thought, that he had struck a clew to the
robbery, and there would be no harm in making a quiet investigation,

clew or no clew.
As it was noon, be surrendered the instrument to Finch, the other
operator, and took the Market street message to the delivery-clerk
himself.
"Put that in an envelope, Chris," he said; "I want to deliver that
myself."
"Got a sweetheart up there, eh?" Chris smiled, complying with his
request.
"Oh, no! They don't trouble me yet," Turk replied. "Time enough for
that hereafter."
He took possession of the message and departed, wondering if he
would be able to make a discovery.
At last be arrived at the number, and ascended a narrow staircase to the
second floor of an old building, the lower floor of which was used as a
harness shop.
There were several doors opening off from the hall, on one of which
was a tin plate bearing the inscription:
"THE SOCIAL OF SEVEN."
As none of the other doors had door-plates. Turk concluded to try the
door of the "Social" in quest of Mr. Fred St. Clair.
His rap was unanswered; and after waiting a moment, be turned the
knob of the door, and entered the room, which was handsomely
furnished.
There was no one in it, however, with whom to leave the message, and
so he concluded to wait a few minutes.
The room was fitted up as a parlor, with a fine carpet, sofa, furniture,
and costly pictures, and other ornaments of an expensive nature.

A door opened from this into another room in the rear, but this was
closed.
After about half an hour's wait, the rear door opened and a man entered
the parlor.
He was about thirty years of age, well built, richly dressed, and bore
marks of dissipation upon his otherwise rather attractive face.
He seemed much surprised at sight of Turk, and not over-pleased.
"What d'ye want here?" he growled, looking at Turk sharply.
"Got a message fer Fred St. Clair. Enow such a chap around here?"
Turk replied carelessly, producing his book.
"Yes; that's my name. Let's have the message, and then you skin out of
here. We don't allow boys here."
"Don't, eh? What kind of a ranch is it, ye're so 'fraid?"
"None of your business, you rascal. Give me the message."
"Jest affix your handle to this book first, Frederick," the ferret said
coolly, "and pan out a quarter-- then the message is yourn."
St. Clair growlingly obeyed.
"Wait-- see if there's an answer!" he said, tearing open the envelope.
"No; you can go."
Turk left the room and descended into the busy street, with its swarms
of sightseers.
Passing around the new public buildings, past the Pennsylvania depot,
from which hundreds of people were pouring as fast as they were
ushered into the city by huge train-loads, he