Johnny stared at her in astonishment. “So he’s a friend of yours?”
“Not quite that.
“Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “it may not be the same man. Not likely to be two men like that in the world, though.
“And Johnny.” She leaned forward eagerly. “If I find him I can make him talk!
“You may not know it, but every truly great detective holds certain men absolutely within his power. Newton Mills, my father, was a great detective. This man with but one ear is a man who fears him more than death. And I am the daughter of Newton Mills. It is only necessary that I whisper in his one good ear, and every secret of your old friend Greasy Thumb, yes, and of your whispering reporter and your Chief of uncertain character, will lie before you like an open book.
“And Johnny, I will find him!” She rose to go.
“More power to you!” Johnny, too, stood up.
“But Johnny!” A sudden thought seized her. “That was not the man who set off the bomb in the tunnel!”
“No,” said Johnny. “That was quite another person, a wild-eyed man with tangled hair.”
“That,” laughed the girl, “is next to no description at all. I know a hundred such.