The young inventor went on down the street.
In a few moments he came to the entrance of the big yards of the Reade Machine Shop.
Here at the entrance was the sumptuously furnished office. Frank entered, and an elderly patrician-looking gentleman who was pacing the floor, excitedly rushed up to him, crying:
“Are you Mr. Frank Reade, Jr.?”
“I am,” replied Frank.
“Thank God you have come at last! Here is my card.”
Frank took it and read:
“Thomas Buckden, New York City.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the young inventor, affably. “I am glad to welcome you here, Mr. Buckden. I believe I know your son well, and——”
“Oh, then you remember him well,” cried the old gentleman, excitedly. “Thank Heaven for that! It will perhaps influence you to accede to the request I have to make. Oh, have—have you heard about my son?”