It may be said that the professional detective, as he announced himself, was somewhat surprised by his reception. He supposed that his host—inasmuch as he was only a boy—would be markedly impressed when he learned the profession of his caller, but he seemed almost indifferent. Pendar was pleased, for it helped to confirm the opinion he had formed of the mental acuteness of the lad.
“I have no intention of assuming the mysterious, Harvey, as some people are fond of doing. Since I have told you I am a detective, you naturally wonder what possible business I can have with you.”
“You guessed right the first time.”
“I assume that you are willing to aid me in the cause of justice.”
“You have no right to assume that, for our ideas of justice, as you term it, may differ.”
The visitor laughed, but without the least noise.
“Well said! But I am sure we shall agree in this business.”
“That remains to be seen.” And Harvey continued his attitude of close attention. Detective Pendar came to the point with a rush:
“Some weeks ago Grace Hastings, the five-year-old daughter of the wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Horace Hastings, of Philadelphia, was stolen by members of the Italian Black Hand, who hold her for a heavy ransom. Perhaps you read the account?”
“I did,” replied Harvey, compressing his lips as his eyes flashed; “I was never so angered in my life. This kidnapping business has become so common during the last few years that I should like to help in burning some of the Mafia and Black Hand devils at the stake. There’s more excuse for such punishment than for burning those black imps in the South.”