A thickset, bristle-haired man of 45 might have been observed last fortnight poking around in the mountainous backwoods of Virginia and the tangled wilderness of rural Maryland. He looked like, and was, a detective. He had been a detective ever since a day in his small-boyhood when he tossed a baseball through a basement window in the outskirts of Philadelphia and, retrieving it, discovered for U.S. agents a nest of counterfeiters.
Mooching quietly about in those backwoods sections, he might have been a detective looking for moonshiners. But his quarry was far more...
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