"Is your appointment so important?" she asked, hanging on.
"Well, I should say it is, and—look out—you blooming idiot! Do you want to get killed?" The last remark was hurled back at an indignant pedestrian who had escaped destruction by the merest chance.
"Here we are," he said, as they drew up beside the entrance to the Elevated. "Thanks awfully,—you're a corker,—sorry to leave you this way. I'll tell you all about it later. You're a dear to help me keep my appointment."
"Seems to me you helped yourself," she cried after him as he darted up the steps. "Come up for tea some day and tell me who the lady is."
After he had gone Miss Drew turned to her chauffeur, who was in the tonneau. Then she laughed unrestrainedly, and the faintest shadow of a grin stole over the man's face.
"Beg pardon, Miss," he said, "but I'd back Mr. Brewster against Fournier any day."
Only half an hour late, Brewster entered the office of Messrs. Grant & Ripley, flushed, eager, and unconscious of the big splotch of mud that decorated his cheek.
"Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting," he apologized.
"Sherlock Holmes would say that you had been driving, Mr. Brewster," said Mr. Ripley, shaking the young man's hand.
"He would miss it, Mr. Ripley. I've been flying. What have you heard from Montana?" He could no longer check the impatient question, which came out so suddenly that the attorneys laughed irresistibly, Brewster joining them an instant later. They laid before him a half dozen telegrams, responses from bankers, lawyers, and mine-operators in Montana. These messages established beyond doubt the extent of James T. Sedgwick's wealth; it was reported to be even greater than shown by the actual figures.