The _North Land_ backed into her berth at India Wharf, Boston, shortly after 8 o’clock the next morning, and Messrs. Harker & Pentecost were driven to the hotel they were in the habit of patronizing when there (except at such times as they preferred to have their presence in that town unobserved), and went to the room which had been reserved by wire. Alfred Harker, son of the senior partner, who’d come over on the train that left New York at midnight (there’s an “Owl” in each direction you know), had been waiting for them there since about half-past six in the morning. After breakfasting together and going over a few matters, the three came down into the hotel office and sat there smoking and chatting. One of the house managers came along. An assistant manager, I believe he was. His name was Tate. He greeted Pentecost and Harker by name, and Alfred (who hadn’t been there before) was introduced. “Boston on business?” Mr. Tate inquired, pleasantly. “That’s it,” said Pentecost; “rather an odd business, too.” “Not so much the _business_ that’s odd,” put in Harker, “but what it brings us up against. Maybe you can give us a pointer or two. We’re trying to buy a mechanical device—invention, you know—from the queerest duck you ever saw, out Roxbury way.” “Queer, eh?” “Just bordering on the lunatic fringe,” Pentecost took it up, “but a crackerjack on mechanics. Got a lot of strange devices in his shop out there; most of ’em no earthly use but marvels of ingenuity, nearly every one. Went out there to see ’em a few days ago—Sunday it was. In fact, it was a Sunday paper put me on to it. Full-page write-up about the chap—pictures of him and all that.” “Oh yes,” Tate put in. “I saw it—I mean the heading—that’s all I read. Something about a hermit, wasn’t it?” “That’s right.” “Has some ingenious things, you say?” “Remarkable! No idea I’d find anything we wanted when I saw the tumble-down place; but, if you’ll believe it, he had one of the most novel inventions I ever laid eyes on; in fact, just the kind of thing we’re after. Exploiting’s our business, you know. I got an option on it and we’re over here to get the thing if we can.” “What’s the man’s name—I forget?” “Haworth—Charles Michael Haworth, if you want it all. I suppose you can’t tell us anything about him?” But aside from having caught a glimpse of that heading Mr. Tate had never heard of the man. He assured them, though, that he was going to make inquiries, and if he got hold of anything he’d certainly let them know. They thanked him, and not long after that the three went out and took a carefully selected taxi for West Roxbury. I don’t want you to get the idea that there were any loose ends about what these super-sharps were doing—not for one half of one per cent. They figured the play to a hair. In this case they had Tate cribbed for a witness. * * * * *