"Steadman!" cried Ralston, sick at heart. "Steadman, old man! I apologize! I beg your pardon! Do you understand? I apologize. It was just a trick to get you out—away."
"Ugh!" groaned the other.
"Brace up! You'll be all right in a minute. All right—in a minute. Understand? Fit as a preacher!"
"I don't know. I'm awfully sick!"
They raced down the avenue in silence until, with a sharp turn, the hansom dashed into East Twenty-seventh Street and stopped with a lurch in front of a low red-brick house close to the corner.
The clock on the corner church showed that he had less than an hour and a half as Ralston rushed to the steps and rang the bell. The door was almost instantly opened by a heavily built man with a pleasant Irish face.
"Hello, Mr. Ralston!" he ejaculated.
"Sh!" answered the other. "Get this man out quick and into the house. You've got to knock him into shape inside of ten minutes. He's at the end of a long one. Ten minutes, do you understand?"
"Leave him to me," answered the matter-of-fact McCullough, then crossing to the cab, "Give me your arm, sir," he said to Steadman.
"Leave me alone!" muttered Steadman.