“Well, you must promise not to ask me any questions about myself,” said Jim, “or else I won’t come.”
“Don’t worry. You put me on the track of that girl, and I’ll make you all right.”
So Jim went to police headquarters, thinking he was doing a great stroke of business, and it was late in the night when Arkwright called up the Benson mansion.
“I want to speak with Mr. Benson.”
“He has retired.”
“Never mind, call him to the wire. I want to speak with him. This is the police headquarters.”
George Benson responded immediately to the call.
“This is Arkwright. May I call upon you at your home immediately? I have found trace of your cousin, Helen Standish.”
When the detective did come in answer to Benson’s reply in the affirmative, he found the rich man pale with fright. The fifteen years that had passed had whitened the locks about his forehead, and his eyes had taken upon them a crafty expression, and no one could ever hold their attention long at a time.
“Maybe you are mistaken,” said he when Jim Farren gave the history of his call upon his Cousin Biddy.