"What do you mean," he demanded, "by following my carriage? I have been onto you ever since you started. Who are you, and what do you want?"
The man was not Jack Farley; he did not resemble him in any way.
He was an elderly man, fashionably dressed, and had the appearance of one who was on his way home after a ball, or some other social function, with just enough wine on board to make him quarrelsome.
"What is your little game?" continued the man. "Come, out with it; I am going to know."
Al was decidedly embarrassed.
"It is all a mistake," he stammered.
"That's too thin," said the stranger. "I'm onto you; you are a detective! Now, what are you shadowing me for?"
Al could not help laughing.
"I am no more a detective than you, sir," he said. "I told my driver to follow a certain carriage, and he has made a mistake; that's all there is to it."
"I made no mistake," interposed the driver, surlily. "This is the carriage you told me to follow."