Still grumbling, he left with Paulson for Detroit. He had no idea of acting in any other than an advisory capacity during the search, of course. He was on hand to take charge of the negotiations at the proper time; but until that time should arrive he purposed remaining in some convenient hotel while Paulson did the scouting. Fortunately, owing to the inventor’s striking personality, Paulson’s task was not difficult.
“Gone to Toronto,” was the report he made to Connorton, a few hours after their arrival in Detroit. “Stopped at the Cadillac, but left there yesterday.”
“Sure it was Hartley?” queried Connorton.
“No doubt about it,” replied Paulson. “Everybody remembers him, for he hired a cab, put the cabby inside, and did the driving himself—said he wanted to see something of the town.”
“That was Hartley, all right,” Connorton admitted, dislodging himself regretfully from the comfortable lobby chair he was occupying, “and I suppose we’ll have to hustle along after him. I don’t see why he has to be so infernally restless, though.”
Again, at Toronto, Connorton had reason to complain of Hartley’s restlessness. His name was on the register of the King Edward Hotel when they arrived there; but he had lingered no longer than in Detroit, and they were still a day behind him.
“Sure it was our Hartley?” asked Connorton.
“No doubt about it,” Paulson replied. “He showed up here with a dunnage bag instead of a trunk, and they took him for an immigrant and were going to throw him out.”
“Must be our man,” agreed Connorton. “That’s just the kind of fool thing he’d do.”
“Made some trouble at the bar,” added Paulson, “by insisting that they should put the seltzer and lemon-peel in his highball glass first and add the whisky afterward—said it improved the flavor to have a highball made that way.”