“Don’t know as I did.”
“Not the—er—nitric acid, for instance?”
“Nope. What of it?”
“Mr. Hoff, your son has been caught by one of the oldest tricks in the whole bunco list—the lost Spanish mine swindle. That acid, together with the rest of the outfit, means a gold-hunt as plain as if it were spelled out. And the Spanish professor was sent for, not to give lessons, but to translate the fake letter. Where does your son bank?”
“Fifth National.”
“Telephone there and find out how much he drew.”
Doctor Hoff sat down at the ’phone. “Five hundred dollars,” he said presently.
“Is that all?” asked the other, disappointed.
“Yes. Wait. He had six checks certified aggregating ten thousand dollars.”
“Then it isn’t South America or the West Indies. He’d want, a letter of credit there. Must be some part of the United States, or just across the border. Well, we’ve done a good day’s work, and I’ve got a hard evening’s thinking before me. We might be able to head off the colonel’s personally conducted expedition yet, if we could locate it.”