Yet such was the fact. A little man who looked
less like a detective than a commercial traveller selling St. Peter's
Oil or some other cheerful concoction, with manners as gentle and a
voice as soft as a spring zephyr, who always took off his hat when he
came into a business office, seemingly bashful to the point of
self-effacement, was the one who snatched Charles F. Dodge from the
borders of Mexico and held him in an iron grip when every influence upon
which Hummel could call for aid, from crooked police officials, corrupt
judges and a gang of cutthroats under the guise of a sheriff's posse,
were fighting for his release.
Jesse Blocher is not employed in New York County, and for business
reasons he does not wish his present address known. When he comes to New
York he occasionally drops into the writer's office for a cigar and a
friendly chat about old times. And as he sits there and talks so
modestly and with such quiet humor about his adventures with the Texas
Rangers among the cactus-studded plains of the Lone Star State, it is
hard even for one who knows the truth, to realize that this man is one
of the greatest of detectives, or rather one of the most capable,
resourceful, adroit and quick-witted knights of adventure who ever set
forth upon a seemingly impossible errand.
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