"Yes."
"I am Rentland. This way, please." He led the psychologist to the little room behind the files, where he had telephoned the moment before.
"Your wire to me in Chicago, which brought me here," said Trant, turning from the inscription "File Clerk" on the door to the dogged, decisive features and wiry form of his client, "gave me to understand that you wished to have me investigate the disappearance, or death, of two of your dock scalecheckers. I suppose you were acting for President Welter—of whom I have heard—in sending for me?"
"No," said Rentland, as he waved Trant to a seat. "President Welter is certainly not troubling himself to that extent over an investigation."
"Then the company, or some other officer?" Trant questioned, with increasing curiosity.
"No; nor the company, nor any other officer in it, Mr. Trant." Rentland smiled. "Nor even am I, as file clerk of the American Commodities Company, overtroubling myself about those checkers," he leaned nearer to Trant, confidentially, "but as a special agent for the United States Treasury Department I am extremely interested in the death of one of these men, and in the disappearance of the other. And for that I called you to help me."
"As a secret agent for the Government?" Trant repeated, with rapidly rising interest.
"Yes; a spy, if you wish to call me, but as truly in the ranks of the enemies to my country as any Nathan Hale, who has a statue in this city. To-day the enemies are the big, corrupting, thieving corporations
