“Any engagement for dinner?” he asked, and when I said I had none he suggested we go to the Savage Club.  We did so, and that dinner was the first enjoyable episode in many dismal weeks.  The quiet charm of the old club, together with its famous ale, had a soothing effect on my nerves, and after several pleasant hours we took a cab back to his office.

Flynn disappeared for a minute and when he returned he handed me a stack of telegrams.

“There are some reports already in,” he said.  “Look them over while I attend to the work for which I’m supposed to draw salary.”

I read them hurriedly.  There was no news of the Hardings from Birmingham, Manchester, Nottingham, Leeds, Liverpool, Brighton, Blackpool, and a score of other places.  Then I opened one from Glasgow.  They had been in Glasgow, but had left.  I was on the trail, and announced the news to Flynn.  He smiled and again bent over his work.

In a few minutes a boy came in with more telegrams.  They had been in Edinburgh on the day following their visit to Glasgow, but were not there now.

“They were in Edinburgh four days ago,” I declared.

“Probably headed for St. Andrews,” said Flynn, stopping in the middle of a sentence he was dictating.  “Don’t bother me, Smith, I’m busy.”

I spent the next half hour studying a map of Great Britain on which I mentally traced Her course from London to Glasgow and from there to Edinburgh.  Another batch of telegrams from Plymouth, Hull, Dublin, Southampton, Newcastle, York, Hastings, and lesser places was silent concerning the missing Hardings.

It was ten o’clock in the evening when the boy handed me three envelopes.  I read the first two and threw them on the floor.  Without glancing at the date line I read the third one.  It ran: 

“Robert L. Harding, wife and daughter at the Caledonia.—­Jones.”

It was dated St. Andrews.

“I’ve found them!” I declared.  Flynn was just closing his desk.  His day’s work was ended and he was in better humour.

“Where are they?” he asked, throwing a mass of stuff into a waste basket.

“St. Andrews.”

“Of course.  Every American golf crank heads for St. Andrews from the same fanatical instinct which impels a Mohammedan to steer for Mecca.”

A study of the time tables showed that I could take a late night train which would place me in Edinburgh early in the morning.

“I’m indebted to you for this more than you realise,” I said to him.

“Don’t mention it.”

“How much do I owe your concern for this service?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” asserted Flynn.  “Won’t know until the bills come in, and that will take a month or more.  I’ll have them tabbed up and send you a statement, you send a cheque and that will end it.”

“If there is anything I can do for you I—­”

“Nothing,” interrupted Flynn, “unless you should happen to run across the New York plutocrat who hires me.  You might tell him that unless he tilts my salary he is likely to lose the most valuable man who ever produced dividends for him.”