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The Detective in America


Being off duty for the time, and the evening close and sultry, I was just settling myself in the open window of my lodgings, to smoke a quiet pipe, when another member of the force came to tell me that I was wanted by the superintendent. I went at once, as required. 

“Banks,” said the superintendent to me, when I went into his room, and the door shut, “we have got a clue at last towards finding that man Jennings.” 

“Indeed, sir, I am glad to hear you say so,” answered I, and I spoke the truth. Uncommonly glad I was, for our profession, like the rest, has its pride about it, and we had been a good deal twitted in the newspapers for not having succeeded, during seven months fruitless search, in securing that particular criminal. A shy bird was that Jennings. His doubles and twists had baffled some of the deepest heads in the police, and although we had often come upon his hiding place just after he had left it, we could never lay hands upon him. He was not a common offender. Well educated, and born in a very respectable station in life, he might have done well, and made an honest fortune, if he could but have kept straight. He was clever, and a first-rate accountant, and got the post of cashier to the –––Bank, while still quite a young man. I need hardly repeat his story—how he forged, and altered figures in passbooks, and played ducks and drakes with the floating balance of his employers. It is a common narrative. He went off at last, just when the detective grew certain, and carried with him nineteen thousand pounds, besides valuable papers and securities for a large amount. Every exertion was made, no expense was spared, and many times we seemed sure of him as he prowled up and down the country in various disguises; but at last the scent grew colder and… Read More