"He is the king of all the yeggmen. He is the master mind, the controlling spirit of all the outlawry and lawlessness that goes on from one end of our big railroad system to the other. Hobo Harry costs us, in round numbers, anywhere from three to ten thousand dollars a month."
"Really?" asked the detective, smiling.
"Yes—really. This is no joke. There isn't a bit of thievery, however petty it may be, or a scheme of robbery, however grand and great, which they do not turn their hands to under the guidance of Hobo Harry—and we have about got to the end of our patience."
"I suppose," said Nick, "that all this means that you want me to find Hobo Harry for you. Is that the idea?"
"That is precisely the idea. Do you suppose you can do it?"
"I can, at least, make the effort."
"I should tell you one thing before you become too sanguine."
"Well, what is it?"
"Hobo Harry is largely a mystery. There are those—detectives, I mean—who insist that he does not exist at all, save in imagination."
Nick nodded.