He knew where to start now. An idea had come to him in that old house far up the river, a suspicion, a feeling of certainty that he was on the right track. Jim Farland was no respecter of persons that night.
When morning came he stopped only for a cup of coffee, and then worked on. He dashed from one place to another, running up a taxicab bill that made the chauffeur smile. He interviewed important gentlemen, threatening some and cajoling others, but always getting the information that he desired.
At two o'clock the following afternoon he stood on a certain corner near Madison Square, his suspicion almost proved, his investigation at an end.
"Now for the big bluff!" Jim Farland said to himself.
He fortified himself with another cup of coffee, got into the taxicab again, and started downtown. He was smoking one of his big, black cigars, puffing at it as if in deep contentment, not looking at all like a man who had been kept a prisoner a night and a day, and had been busy since that experience.
The taxicab stopped before an office building, as Jim Farland had ordered. The detective pulled out his last money and paid the chauffeur.
"You're got more coming, son, but this is all I have with me," Farland said. "Drop in at my office any time after ten to-morrow morning and get it."
"Yes, Mr. Farland—and thanks!"
"You're a good boy, but keep your mouth shut!" Farland told him.
Then he hurried into the office building, went to the elevator nearest the entrance, and ascended to the floor where George Lerton had his suite of offices.