“Exactly,” agreed Jerry. “But, Mr. Slade, if we are to find this odd man, we ought to have something to work on. Where was he located last?”
“Out in San Francisco,” was the reply. “But where he went from there no one seems to know. He started East to inspect a new railroad he is building, and from then on all trace of him has been lost. I have agents in various parts of the country trying to get a trace of him, but so far—”
Mr. Slade was interrupted by the sudden ringing of the telephone bell. He swung around to his desk, in the private office where the talk was taking place, and unhooked the receiver. The boys listened to the one-sided conversation.
“Yes—yes,” said Mr. Slade eagerly. “What’s that? He is? Are you sure it’s the same man? In Boston, you say—No, just outside—what’s that? The name of the place is Durham? Yes, I get it. Oh, say, I’m ever so much obliged to you, Burkhardt. Yes, I’ll get right after him. In fact, I have some friends of mine here in the office now who are anxious to start off on the quest. Yes, they’re friends of Ned. Good-bye!”
Mr. Slade turned to the three chums.
“Boys!” he cried, “I have a trace of Mr. Jackson. He was in Boston yesterday, and is now stopping at a health resort in Durham, resting up after a hard business campaign.”
“In Durham!” cried Jerry. “That’s not far from here. We could do it in one day in the auto! We’re on his trail at last! Come on, fellows, let’s get ready for the trip!”