“Yes, you, doped me and dragged me here with your talk at the Club, turned my head till I’m sure not sane, for I’m in this business with you up to the neck. I’m as mad as yourself, I want to be off, I wouldn’t be out of it for ten thousand dollars, though I’m hanged if I know what the draw is.”
“Man hunting,” said Hank.
CHAPTER III
THE PLAN
THE town lot speculator took his feet down from the desk and George, flinging his cigarette away, got up, took a few paces, and altered his position by straddling his chair, leaning his arms on the back. It was a favourite trick of old Harley du Cane. When big things were on, and if there was a crisis and he was seated and talking to you, ten to one he’d get up, take a few paces, and then sit down again straddling his chair as if he were riding a horse.
“Well, that’s settled,” said George. “I’m with you. What’s your plan? You said you knew where this man is and could put your finger on him.”
“I guess I was talking through my hat,” said Hank. “It’s a way I have, times.”
“Then how the devil are you going to find him?”
“It’s a way I have, times,” said Hank, not seeming to hear the other, “but I’m never far wrong when I’m talking that way. I don’t know where the chap is any more than I know where Solomon’s aunt’s buried, but I’ve a feeling that his haunt’s round about the islands down Santa Catalina way. I know all the coast running from Monterey right to Cape St. Lucas. I had a tenth share in a shark boat once, and I’ve nosed into all the cricks and corners right to the end of Lower California, and I’ve got a feeling that the Dutchman’s using the Channel Islands and that we’ll fetch him somewhere about there, if we’re clever.”