“That is what we need to consider,” was the reply. “I should go first to the most obvious quarter. Men of his kind naturally gravitate to the poor-house. He may have dropped them in some such place. Have you searched the books of the poor-houses?”
“No,” said Mr. Somers, greatly interested. “I never thought of that.”
“You see where your fault was, then, in depending too much on yourself, and not calling in the detective police. You forget that it is the business of their lives to search out crimes and mysteries.”
“I wish I had met you sooner. It would have been better than the detectives.”
“I am a detective,” was the reply.
“You are?” cried Mr. Somers in great astonishment.
“Yes, sir. My name is Fitler. I thank you for your confidence in this matter. If you wish I will undertake to work it up. I am in doubt, though, that it may be too late.”
“I shall be too happy to have the services of a shrewd man like you. I see I have done you officers injustice. But why have you, a detective, called on me and asked me so many questions?”
“I will tell you,” said Mr. Fitler, “since I am satisfied, from your answers, that I was on a wrong track. You know a boy called Will Somers?”
“I know no such boy!” cried the old gentleman, excitedly. “If I did I should know my own son, for that was his name. Why do you ask me such a question as that?”