"Know anybody about here by the name of Cassey?" asked Mr. Brandon.
"Cassey? Cassey?" repeated the postmaster ruminatively. "No, there's
nobody of that name around here. Or if there is, he's never been to
this office to get his mail."
"The man I'm speaking of stutters--stutters badly," said the
inspector. "Is there any one like that in town?"
"Just one," replied the postmaster. "And he stutters enough for a
dozen. Worst case I ever knew. Gets all tangled up and has to whistle
to go on. But his name's Reddy."
"Has he been here long?" pursued the inspector.
"Oh, a matter of a month or two," was the reply. "Never saw him
before this year. Thought perhaps he was one of the early birds
of the summer visitors that was rushing the season."
"Where does he live?" asked Mr. Brandon.
"Just a little way up the street," replied the postmaster. "Come
to the window here and I'll show you the house."
He pointed out a little cottage of rather dilapidated aspect, above
which the keen eye of Mr. Brandon saw the end of an aerial.
He thanked the postmaster and went out to his party.
"I think we have our game bagged all right," he remarked, and
rejoiced to see the light that came into Miss Berwick's eyes,
"but of course I'm not sure as yet."
He told them the result of his inquiries, and they were delighted.
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