“What have you found out?” I asked. “Your eyes are blazing.”
“It’s that demon Fifeson,” he said. “No trouble to find his scent, but I wished to know whether he’s after good or evil.”
“I hear he’s reformed,” I said, “and is doing well in a garage on Broadway.”
“I hate him,” said King Harry. “I suppose it’s wrong, but it will take years for me to get over my resentment toward him. He never hurt me much. I had simply to draw a wagon on the stage, but it used to make my blood boil to see him flog that small Amarilla.”
“Never mind that now, old man,” I said, “tell us what you’ve discovered.”
“When a man is in a furious rage, and about to commit a crime,” said the hound, “a strong acrid smell emanates from him. Those gloves are damp and excited as to scent, but not criminal. I guess Fifeson is here on business.”
“Maybe it’s good business,” I said.
“We canna tell,” said the little Scotch dog cautiously. “For what did he hide his car? I suspicioned who it was, but didna care to tell till I was sure.”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s follow him.”