"Great scheme, Flynn!" I declared, "you're a natural detective."
"Natural nothing," growled that clever individual, "it's a part of the regular grind. It should be no great trick to find a man worth thirty millions in an area not much bigger than Illinois."
He wrote a telegram, dictated the list of places to his stenographer and turned to me.
"Any engagement for dinner?" he asked, and when I said I had none he suggested we go to the Savage Club. We did so, and that dinner was the first enjoyable episode in many dismal weeks. The quiet charm of the old club, together with its famous ale, had a soothing effect on my nerves, and after several pleasant hours we took a cab back to his office.
Flynn disappeared for a minute and when he returned he handed me a stack of telegrams.
"There are some reports already in," he said. "Look them over while I attend to the work for which I'm supposed to draw salary."
I read them hurriedly. There was no news of the Hardings from
Birmingham, Manchester, Nottingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Brighton,
Blackpool, and a score of other places. Then I opened one from Glasgow.
They had been in Glasgow, but had left. I was on the trail, and
announced the news to Flynn. He smiled and again bent over his work.
In a few minutes a boy came in with more telegrams. They had been in Edinburgh on the day following their visit to Glasgow, but were not there now.
"They were in Edinburgh four days ago," I declared.
"Probably headed for St. Andrews," said Flynn, stopping in the middle of a sentence he was dictating. "Don't bother me, Smith, I'm busy."