From one detective to another he went, giving the description, and inquiring if any could say who tallied in appearance with it.
Among the others he came to me, but, like the others, I could not even guess who the person might be, so meager was the description.
I asked him if he intended turning detective himself.
"I do," he firmly said; "and I shall never give up until I have found her, and unearthed the rascal who has done this."
"Who is this 'her' you speak of?"
"A girl whom I love dearer than my life itself!" was the earnest reply—not given in a mawkish and sentimental tone, but in a manly way that won for the speaker my good opinion.
"Perhaps I can help you," I said. "Tell me your story."
He did so, but so little did it contain that I could see no advice to give him, and told him so frankly.
"I like you for your frankness," said Mat; "but say no more or you may discourage me."
I asked him his name, and when he had told me what it was, I found that I had known his father.