“Then you’re the fellow who repaired the governor’s car, out on the trail. He told us about you. Sorry I mistook you for a burglar, Clancy!”
“I hardly see how you could help it,” Clancy returned. “Wonder where the deuce Fortune is?” he added, as he and Pembroke and Hibbard mounted the front steps of the house.
“He was in this, too, eh?” growled Hibbard.
The front door of the house was open, and the judge, in shirt, trousers, and slippers, stood in the entrance.
“What in the world is the matter, Larry?” the judge queried, staring at his son. “Has there been a robbery?”
“That’s the size of it, dad,” answered young Pembroke. “Your Prescott money has gone to Ballyhack, I reckon. There were two of the scoundrels, and the other fellow gave us the slip. He must have had the canvas bag.”
“Never mind the money,” said the judge, “if you’re not hurt. Who’s that you have there?”
“One of them is young Clancy, the chap who repaired your car out in the hills. He came here to prevent the robbery, if he could. The other is Hibbard. He knew about that Prescott money, and came here after it.”
The judge led the way into the drawing-room. A number of the women members of the household were clustered there, shivering with fright. The judge reassured them, and sent them upstairs. After they were gone, he turned to his son, Clancy, and the prisoner.
“I can’t understand this,” said he. “Hibbard, did you come to this house to rob me?”