Cyrus made his way back to the car with some self-congratulations that served to brace up the muscles behind his knees. This last incident showed him plainly that his father was putting him to a severe test of some sort, and he could have no doubt that it was for a purpose. His father was the kind of man who does things with a very definite purpose indeed. Cyrus looked back over the day with an anxious searching of his memory to be sure that no detail of the singular service required of him had been slighted.
As he once more ascended the steps of his own home, he was so confident that his labours were now ended that he almost forgot about "Env. No. 20" which he had been directed to read in the vestibule before entering the house. With his thumb on the bell-button he recollected, and with a sigh broke open the final seal:
Turn about and go to Lenox Street Station, B—— Railroad, reaching there by 8.05. Wait for messenger in west end of station, by telegraph office. C. W., Jr.
It was a blow, but Cyrus had his second wind now. He felt like a machine—a hollow one—which could keep on going indefinitely.
"I know how an automobile feels," he said to himself, "rolling about from one place to another—never knowing where it's due next—always waiting outside—never getting fed. Wonder if eating is on this schedule. I'd have laid in something besides a chop and a roll this morning at breakfast if I'd known what was ahead."
The Lenox Station was easily reached on time. The hands of the big clock were only at one minute past eight when Cyrus entered. At the designated spot the messenger met him. Cyrus recognized the man as a porter on one of the trains of the road of which his grandfather and father were officers. Why, yes, he was the porter of the Woodbridge special car! He brought the boy a card which ran thus:
Give porter the letter from Norwalk Building, the card received at restaurant, the matinée coupon, yesterday evening's Sentinel, and the envelope received at Kingston Heights. C. W., Jr.
Cyrus silently delivered up these articles, feeling a sense of thankfulness that not one was missing. The porter went away with them, but was back in three minutes.
"This way, sir," he said, and Cyrus followed, his heart beating fast. Down the track he recognized the "Fleetwing," President Woodbridge's private car. And Grandfather Cornelius he knew to be just starting on a tour of his own and other roads, which included a flying trip to Mexico. Could it be possible——
In the car his father and grandfather rose to meet him. Cornelius Woodbridge, Senior, was holding out his hand.