“It’s about Jack I want to see you.” Mr. Morton spoke in the compact sentences of a master of affairs. “I guess you know he’s been some trouble. I’m certain something’s in the air now. I don’t know whether it’s that Miss Cordova or something else. I can’t get anything out of Jack. I’ve been having him looked over by a private detective; you know him—Bradley; but Bradley doesn’t seem to be able to learn anything either. I’m not one hundred per cent trustful of Bradley: set a detective to catch a detective—that might prove a good idea. Will you undertake the job?—finding out about Bradley, and finding out about my son?”
“I can’t say until I know the situation.” Here was opening before him the chance he had been working for, but Clifford managed to speak composedly. “If you don’t mind telling me, just how do things stand?”
“If you know Jack, you know what his idea of living in New York was a year or six months ago. I couldn’t leave my affairs and come here to look after him. I ordered my lawyer, Mr. Loveman, to take whatever steps were necessary. It was absolutely essential that Jack should take a brace—”
“Pardon me. Aside from the moral reasons, were there any other reasons for your wanting Jack to change his habits?”
“There was, and still is, an engagement with a young woman back in Chicago. Not exactly an engagement, rather an understanding between the families. The match could not be more desirable; the young lady has everything.”
“Pardon me—do I know the young lady you refer to?”
“You may have heard of her. Her father is Sherwood Jones. She is Miss Maisie Jones.”
“I have seen her picture in the illustrated Sunday supplements—among prominent young society girls.”
“Then you can partially understand why I consider the match so desirable. But the family at that time objected, and still objects—until Jack proves that he has settled down. Three months ago I came East and delivered an ultimatum.”
“In the presence of Jack alone?” Clifford put in gently.