“You must think we’re green to swallow a yarn like that,” retorted the official. “Do you think a bloomin’ millionaire would go about without a few quid in his pocket?”
At that moment the phut! phut! of a motor sounded from without the station gates, and a car pulled up at the entrance.
“Hullo! Doctor Oswyn,” cried the station-master, as a tall, good-looking young fellow loomed through the gloom; “here’s a fellow as professes to be Haverly, the American millionaire.”
“And so he is, you thundering blockhead!” cried the newcomer, as he gripped the Yankee’s hand.
“Frank!” exclaimed the latter, returning the pressure; “this is great!”
“Whatever brings you to this hole, Silas?” Oswyn asked.
Withdrawing beyond earshot of the astounded porter and his equally astonished chief, Haverly gave his friend a brief outline of his adventures in the express.
“I can go one better than a special,” averred Oswyn; “my car’s outside, ready for a run; come along; we’ll be at Hilton in about an hour.”
“That’s the style!” cried Haverly. “I’ll be a heap in your debt for this, Frank.”