Buck Hawk, Detective | Page 9

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 suddenly felt a hand placed upon big shoulder, and faced about to find himself in the presence of a tall, lank individual, with thin, sharp features, a hook nose, bead-like black eyes, and a decidedly Frenchy mustache of a like color, waxed out at the ends.
His dress, however, was of the shabby-genteel order, and among almost any crowd he would have been classed a bummer.
"Hello! what d'ye want?" Turk demanded, as he critically surveyed the man. "Don't try none o' your confidence dodges on me-- I'm too salt!"
The hawkish man laughed.
"I just reckoned so," he said, with a strange chuckle. "And you're just the very chap I want."
And as he spoke he turned aside his vest-collar, and exhibited a glittering gold detective badge.


CHAPTER IV.
TURK ON THE BEAT.
Surprised and alarmed, Turk instantly concluded that this detective had discovered him to be the same person who had procured the diamonds from the St. Clair Mansion.
"Don't be scared," the officer said, reading the boy's thoughts. "It isn't you I'm after, by a long shot. I'm wanting a wide-awake lad as an apprentice, and, judging by your physiog, you're the boy I want. So come along with me."
He did not say it invitingly, but authoritatively, and Turk hardly knew what to say or do.
He had always longed to become a detective by profession, and here was a chance when he least expected it. Yet be knew that he would be losing his position in the office, and might not be able to do as well, should he not prove an expert in the detective line.
"I guess you'll have to strike some other feller," he demurred, shaking his bead. "I've got a pretty good snap with the Western Union."
"Pshaw! you can't make your living at that. I'll pay you good wages, and guarantee