“Why, what do you mean?”
“If I remember rightly,” said Henry Burns, speaking with a slight drawl, “we started out last evening to have some fun. My little chat with our friend is the nearest approach to fun that this scrape has afforded me so far.”
“That may have been fun for you,” said George. “To my mind it was very much like playing with fire; but here’s the steamer. You’ve got my note of introduction to father?”
“Yes, I’ve got everything all right. Now keep your eyes open and expect me to-morrow night.” And Henry Burns crossed the gangplank to the steamer.
The train from Mayville to Benton reached its destination at eleven o’clock, and at that hour in the forenoon Henry Burns walked briskly out of the station. Half an hour later he stood in the waiting-room at the wealthy banking-house of Curtis & Earle.
“Well, what do you want, young man?” asked an important and decidedly officious attendant, bustling up to him.
“This is Mr. Curtis, I presume,” answered Henry Burns, blandly, but with the faintest suspicion of a twinkle in his eye.
“No, it isn’t,” said the man, abruptly, and looking a little foolish as several other attendants tittered audibly. “And, what’s more, you cannot see Mr. Curtis, for he is just preparing to leave for the day.”
“But I must see him,” insisted Henry Burns. “I’ve got some very important information for him. Have the kindness to take this in to him,” and he handed the surprised attendant a card upon which he had written in a clear but boyish hand:
Henry Allen Burns
Private Detective