“I wonder what he’ll say?” queried Gerald.
“Well, he might advise us to look before we leap another time,” laughed Philip.
The sun had set and fog was turning into a drizzle as they crossed the flat, salt meadows west of Bergen Hill and left the draw-bridges of the sinuous Hackensack behind them. It was well that Philip had expressly warned Mr. Hilliard not to wait for them in Jersey City, for he suddenly discovered that the freight of the road did not go to the same terminus as the passenger trains, and that he and Gerald would land in New York a good distance up-town. The North River was wrapped in a thick mist as they made their sluggish passage across; the rain fell steadily, and Touchtone was glad when they landed and set out for Mr. Hilliard’s apartment as fast as the only cab they could find might be made to rattle. “You are pretty well used up, aren’t you?” he said to Gerald, putting his arm along the tired boy’s shoulder. “Never mind; we’ll be there safe and sound presently.”
Madison Avenue reached, Philip counted the numbers through the sash. The cab veered to the gutter. The man leaped down and opened the door.
“Shall I wait, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Philip; “we want an address.”
He hurried up the step of a tall apartment-house, Gerald, in his renewed excitement, declining to stay behind.
“Will you please give me the address for to-night of Mr. Frederick Hilliard?” he inquired of the footman who answered his ring. “Has he been here in course of the evening?”
“Beg your pardon, sir,” replied the man, respectfully. “What did you ask for, sir?”
“For Mr. Hilliard’s address since the fire.”