"It's nearly three o'clock!" Hunterleys declared impressively.
"Can't help it," Richard yawned, throwing off the bed-clothes and sitting on the edge of the bed. "I am young and delicate and I need my rest. Seriously, Hunterleys," he added, "you take a chap out and make him drive you at sixty miles an hour all through the night, you keep him at it till nearly six in the morning, and you seem to think it a tragedy to find him in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon. Hang it, I've only had eight hours' sleep!"
"I don't care how long you've had," Hunterleys rejoined. "I am only too thankful to find you. Now listen. Is your brain working? Can you talk seriously?"
"I guess so."
"You remember our talk last night?"
"Every word of it."
"The time has come," Hunterleys continued,—"your time, I mean. You said that if you could take a hand, you'd do it. I am here to beg for your help."
"You needn't waste your breath doing that," Richard answered firmly. "I'm your man. Go on."
"Listen," Hunterleys proceeded. "Is your yacht in commission?"
"Ready to sail at ten minutes' notice," the young man assured him emphatically, "victualled and coaled to the eyelids. To tell you the truth, I have some idea of abducting Fedora to-day or to-morrow."