General Thorne grew alarmed. The police were quietly notified, without letting the newspapers know; and two police detectives were put on the case. Besides them, two operatives from a good private detective-agency were employed. The great Poodle had to box his own ears, to keep from feeling conceited at the way in which these private detectives consulted him; and the anxious respect with which they hinted that they knew how Poodle had aviated with Hike across the country. Poodle talked the case over with Lieutenant Adeler; suggesting that Captain Willoughby Welch must have something to do with the matter; but this the Lieutenant, good army-man as he was, refused to listen to. Then Master Poodle took a long walk with himself, and thought the whole thing over thoroughly. He decided: “Here’s where I become a grand little detective.” He felt very certain that Mr. P. J. Jolls and Captain Welch knew a great deal about the matter. He found, by telephoning, that Captain Welch, who was staying at the New Willard, had been seen loafing about the lobby, talking to acquaintances and reporters, all day. That, Poodle decided, was for the sake of appearances. Captain Welch was not, he believed, so clumsy a rascal that he needed to be doing mischief himself, in order to get it done; and, anyway, it was good Mr. Jolls who was likely to be causing the real trouble. Where was Mr. Jolls? He was supposed to be in Chicago. There his factories were located. But suppose he were in Washington? His name had not been mentioned in the newspapers; he had not been seen about the State, War, and Navy Building, where the Board of Aviation had been holding its meetings. But Poodle felt sure that the man was here; that his fat hand had something to do with the disappearance of Hike. He described Jolls to one of the private detectives. He had seen the airship magnate at Captain Welch’s house, in Monterey. He mentioned Jolls’ sausage-roll neck, his red little eyes, the four gaudy rings he wore. The detective started his search, without confiding in any one except Poodle. He searched through several of the larger hotels. Poodle waited in the anteroom of General Thorne’s office. There was a telephone call for him. Over the wire, he heard the detective reporting, “Hullo. Darby? Well, there’s a guy here at the Hotel de Suisse that—” “Hotel de Suisse?” “Yuh, it’s a small hotel but very swell—lot of rich people that are here lobbying use it. Well, there’s a guy here named Jolls. He ain’t registered. But I got wise to him through a bell-hop. And he looks just like you said the right Jolls did.” “A’ right. Be right there. Meet me in lobby. Say, just kill Jolls for me, while you’re waiting, will you?” exclaimed Poodle, and, jamming the receiver on the hook, dashed out of the telephone booth. “Call me a taxi!” he shrieked at an orderly. The soldier jumped to obey. Poodle waited for the taxi on the walk, and swung into it before it had stopped.