“Of course, Viola. But I don't know how.”
“Then let me tell you,” and she seemed to be in better control of herself than at any time that day. “This must be gone into systematically, and we can best do it through a detective.”
“A detective!” cried Harry Bartlett, and he started from his chair. “Why, my dear Viola, a detective would be the worst possible person to call in on a case like this! Let me investigate, if you think it wise, but a detective—”
“I am not speaking of an ordinary detective, Harry. I have in mind an elderly man who was a friend of my father. He has an extraordinary reputation for solving mysteries.”
“Well, of course, if you know the man it makes a difference.” Bartlett eyed the girl curiously. “I didn't know you knew any detectives.”
“The man I have in mind was in some business deal with my father once, and they became very well acquainted. I met him several times, and liked him immensely. He is well along in years, but I think sharper than many younger men. But there is one difficulty.”
“What is that?”
“More than likely he will shy at having anything to do with the case. He told my father he was going to retire and devote his leisure time to fishing—that being his great pastime.”
“Humph! he can't be much of a detective if he wants to spend most of his time fishing,” was Bartlett's comment.
“You're mistaken, Harry. My father, and other men too, considered him one of the greatest detectives in the world, even though he sometimes works in a very peculiar and apparently uninterested manner.” “All right then, Viola. If you say so, I'll look up this wonderful detective for you and get him to take hold of the case.”