"Tell me who sent you here?"
"Mistah Goodrich."
Dick was startled, though his face showed no surprise.
"The old gentleman?"
"'No sah, Mistah Frank."
"How did he know that I had any papers?"
"I don' know sah; he only said as how he wanted dem; an' he's er waitin' 'round de cornah in de kerrige."
This was a new feature in the situation. Dick was puzzled. At last he stepped to the phone and, still covering the negro with the revolver, he rang up central and called for Mr. Wicks' residence. When the answer came, he said easily, "Excuse me for disturbing you, Mr. Wicks, but I have a man here in the office who wants to get into your safe, and I need you badly. You had better come in the back way."
"I'll be with you in a shake," was the reply; "hold him down till I get there." And a few minutes later the old gentleman knocked at the door. Dick admitted him and then burst into a hearty laugh at his strange appearance; for in his haste, Uncle Bobbie had simply pulled on a pair of rubber boots and donned an overcoat. With the exception of these articles, he was in his nightshirt and cap. In his hand, he carried a pistol half as long as his arm; but he was as calm as Dick himself, though breathing hard. "To-be-sure," he puffed, "I'm—so—plagey—fat—can't hurry—worth cent—wind's no good—have to take—to smokin' agin—sure."
Dick explained the situation in a few words; "I wouldn't have called you sir, if young Goodrich were not in it. But—but—you see—I don't know what to do," he finished, lamely.