“Done!” The girl put out a slim hand. Johnny gripped it hard.
Newton Mills, this girl’s father, as you probably know, had for many years been one of New York’s best known city detectives. The life of such a man is hard. To catch criminals it is necessary to live the life they live, or so it has always been believed. This means long hours in dark and doubtful places at night. At times it means drinking and even drugs. The life had demoralized Newton Mills at last.
Johnny had found him a derelict. He had pulled this derelict to port and had for a time at least rendered it seaworthy. Newton Mills had once more worked wonders.
Now he was gone. He had vanished one fine morning without word or sign. That had been many days ago.
As he sat there now with Joyce Mills, the great detective’s capable daughter, so near him, Johnny thought of the times they had enjoyed together. Kindred spirits they had been.
“I must find him!” he said, thinking aloud.
“Yes, Johnny, you must!” The girl’s tone carried an appeal.
“But tell me.” She brightened. “What sort of a man am I to look for—this one who snatched the registered package?”
“That man? Why, somehow Curlie’s got the notion that he’s rather short and round shouldered, with curly hair and one ear missing. Queer business, that ear. Uncommon, I’d say.”
“Yes, it is,” the girl replied quite calmly. “Lost it trying to hold some one up, I believe. The man resisted. This holdup fellow was pushed off. The car started. He was caught in the fender and dragged a long way. Tore his ear right off.”