“After I had myself informed him that there was a chap of that name there; don’t forget that, Millard. A mere play to the gallery.” Storm laughed. “Captain Nairn is highly successful, I have no doubt, in cases of lost children and runaway girls, but I must confess I see no basis for your remarkable faith in the powers of the Department. They’ve failed in other cases just as they will in this.”
“You wait and see!” Millard’s tone was distinctly ruffled. “I’ve known the Commissioner’s secretary for years and I’m going to get him to let me in on this case from the inside and watch how they work it. I’ll bet you fifty dollars they get that man Horton!”
“And the hundred thousand?” Storm was still laughing, but there was a reckless glint in his eyes.
“And the hundred thousand!” Millard repeated with emphasis.
“Any time limit?”
“Oh, well, if the fellow succeeds in getting out of the country——” Millard hedged.
“Shall we say six months?—Done! Come up and dine with me at my rooms on Tuesday night, and we’ll let George Holworthy hold the stakes.” Storm held out his hand in a sudden volatile accession of cordiality. “Good-bye, and thanks for a most interesting afternoon, old man, really!”
After he had left Millard, however, a quick revulsion of mood came and he cursed the impulse which had led him to extend the invitation. The voluble little man bored him horribly, but he had felt an impish desire to goad him on in his laudation of the Department, and to seal the compact of the wager within a few feet of where the money lay securely hidden had seemed a great joke at the moment. It might be a wise move, at that, to keep in with Millard if the latter managed through his boasted friendship with the Commissioner’s secretary to obtain any inside information on the progress of the case. He would be sure to retail it in defense of his argument, and in spite of his sense of security Storm determined to be forewarned of any possible danger.
He dined alone at an old down-town hotel which he frequented when the mood for solitude came upon him. It was a Stately place with an air of faded grandeur about it, left far behind in the upward march of the city, but still retaining a remnant of its ancient patronage.
As he sat over his coffee, Storm idly studied the diners scattered about at the nearby tables. They were elderly for the most part with a solid air of conscious rectitude and well-being, and they ate with the deliberation and grave relish due to the reputation of the cuisine. A shining bald pate above a coat of magisterial black at the next table caught Storm’s eye by its glistening expanse. The man was sitting back luxuriously reading a paper which he held outstretched to aid some defect of vision, and over one ample shoulder a few letters of the headline jumped out in staring type.