I spent the next half hour studying a map of Great Britain on which I mentally traced Her course from London to Glasgow and from there to Edinburgh. Another batch of telegrams from Plymouth, Hull, Dublin, Southampton, Newcastle, York, Hastings, and lesser places was silent concerning the missing Hardings.
It was ten o'clock in the evening when the boy handed me three envelopes. I read the first two and threw them on the floor. Without glancing at the date line I read the third one. It ran:
"Robert L. Harding, wife and daughter at the Caledonia.—Jones."
It was dated St. Andrews.
"I've found them!" I declared. Flynn was just closing his desk. His day's work was ended and he was in better humour.
"Where are they?" he asked, throwing a mass of stuff into a waste basket.
"St. Andrews."
"Of course. Every American golf crank heads for St. Andrews from the same fanatical instinct which impels a Mohammedan to steer for Mecca."
A study of the time tables showed that I could take a late night train which would place me in Edinburgh early in the morning.
"I'm indebted to you for this more than you realise," I said to him.