"I must have those papers written up that Hardwick was at work on. The books I can write up myself."
"Then, with your permission, I'll write up the papers and then begin my hunt."
"Very well. But mind and keep out of trouble."
Hal smiled, and turned at once to the desk. A strange feeling filled his breast. He was really going to turn detective—he, a country boy, and that, too, in New York.
"It sounds like the wildest kind of a romance," he thought to himself. "But it isn't; it's sober truth, and I may find it a mighty hard truth before I get through."
He fairly flew at the work, and by two o'clock it was finished. He handed it to Mr. Sumner.
"That is excellent," said the broker, glancing over the written pages. "And now I suppose you are ready to go?"
"If you are willing, sir."
"There is nothing more to be done to-day. To-morrow I shall get a first-class book-keeper whom I happen to know, to take Hardwick's place."
In a minute more Hal was off. He knew not exactly in what direction to go, but thought he would cross Broadway and take the Sixth Avenue elevated cars to Fifty-third Street.