An old gentleman looked at me for a minute or two, and then took my letter of introduction from his desk.  He read it carefully again, wiped his glasses and asked me if I were John Henry Smith.  I assured him that to the best of my knowledge and belief I was.

He looked doubtfully at me, hesitated as if determined to make no mistake, sighed and then informed me that Mr. Harding had not left his address in their care.  I was tempted to express the opinion that Mr. Harding showed rare judgment in declining to leave it with them, since it doubtless would require an action at law to recover it in the event he should have use for it, but I thanked the aged man for all that they had done for me, and emerged from this gloomy den into the street.

[Illustration:  “He looked doubtfully at me”]

This reed had broken.  I never had much faith in it.

I had more confidence in a plan I then set in motion.  I have a friend in London of the name of Flynn.  He is an American newspaper man.  Flynn says he would like to be a “journalist,” but needs the money; therefore he continues to be a newspaper man, and he is a good one.

Flynn is connected with one of the big news associations and after drifting with the tide of cab and omnibus traffic which gorges on Fleet Street, I finally located him in an office in New Bridge Street.  I had not seen him in five years.

“Hello, Smith!” he exclaimed, placidly as if we had spent the preceding evening together.  “When did you strike town?”

“Last night,” I said, heartily shaking hands.

“I see that you recently put a crimp in that Wall Street gang,” he observed, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his chair.  “You were in with Harding on that deal, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I’m looking for him.”

I briefly told him of the death of my uncle, and explained that Harding had left suddenly and that it was necessary I should locate him without delay.

“He was in London stopping at the Savoy a week ago,” said Flynn, after consulting a record book.  “I sent a man to see him and he wouldn’t be seen.  No use for you to go there; they won’t tell you where he went.”

“But can you help me locate him?” I eagerly asked.

“Certainly I can, provided you stand the tolls,” he said.  “Electricity is as rapid here as in the United States, and if this magnate is on one of these islands we can get his address in four or five hours, if we have any kind of luck.  Suppose we wire the twenty larger cities and towns, about the same number of summer resorts, and the leading golf centres?”

“Great scheme, Flynn!” I declared, “you’re a natural detective.”

“Natural nothing,” growled that clever individual, “it’s a part of the regular grind.  It should be no great trick to find a man worth thirty millions in an area not much bigger than Illinois.”

He wrote a telegram, dictated the list of places to his stenographer and turned to me.