“I think you have too much regard for your own good to do otherwise,” answered the detective, without looking up from the letter he was reading.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A LOVELY SCRAP.
For half an hour after the departure of Andrew Lampton, the detective sat at his table, reading letters and other papers, and occasionally making notes for answers to be returned or business to be done. He was a very busy man, and he was essentially methodical. Efficiency was his watchword, as it is that of most successful men.
“If I can get hold of this Potter, it won’t be long before I shall be able to trace Howard Milmarsh. It is absurd for a young man to remain out of his home and birthright for a mere idea. That Howard is somewhere in New York I am convinced. I am inclined to think this fellow Lampton knows also. If I were sure of it, he never would have left my house to-night. As it is, I must have patience.”
He lighted a cigar and smoked reflectively for ten minutes. Then, suddenly, there was a sharp tap at his door, and Chick came in, followed by Patsy Garvan. The faces of both indicated that they had news.
“I guess we’ve found T. Burton Potter!” cried Chick. “Although I never expected to see him settle down seriously to work.”
“What’s he working at?”
“He’s doing some kind of clerical work in Partrom’s steel works, in Harlem.”
“Are you sure?”