“Gone? Where?” threw back Pendleton.
“Couldn’t say, sir. But he had a dress-suit case. Perhaps he’s took a train, sir.”
Pendleton whirled. He looked about for a taxi, for anything to take him to the station; everything had gone to Yale Field. The servant, watching, understood. “Mr. Price’s car, sir—” Pendleton vanished to the garage. In three minutes more he was whirling toward the station. In five minutes he was dashing through the archway to the tracks. A train was slowly pulling out. He looked up at the car windows helplessly as they passed, and suddenly, out of one of them, Ellsworth’s face of tragedy looked down at him. He caught at the hand-rail and swung on. He walked down the car and dropped down.
“Why the devil do you make a fellow run on a hot day?” he inquired, and fanned himself with his hat.
Ellsworth stared. “What’s this for, Jimmy?” he said. “It’s no good. I’m going.”
“Old boy,” said Jimmy Pendleton, “you’re going to Stamford good and plenty. That’s the first stop. I’m going there, too. But do you know what will happen then?” There was a lawless gleam in the speaker’s eye. He went on: “We’ll get off at Stamford, and we’ll catch the next train up.”
“No,” said Ellsworth.
“My son, I don’t want talking back,” answered Pendleton. “We’re going, you and I, to New Haven, to Digby and Loomis, who are hot on your trail, with that picayune little paper of yours. Digby took one look and told Loomis to lose no time pinching it for the government. So Loomis is sitting on the front steps waiting for you to come and pick up your everlasting fortune.”
Then for one moment the good angel was frightened, for his charge turned pale and trembled.
“Cheer up, old man,” adjured the good angel. “It’s good news. It’s all right.”