Suddenly Mr. Steadman thought of the telegram and the missing man. He resolved to take Driggs into his confidence.
Driggs was as quick to see the import of it as King James was to smell gunpowder on that fateful November day when the warning letter was read in Parliament.
"The Government have sent him out to investigate this in your behalf," he said.
"But where is he?" asked Mr. Steadman.
Mr. Driggs' bushy brows drew down over his eyes.
"There's one person can help us," he said. He threw on his jute-colored waterproof and his faded felt hat. Mr. Steadman followed him as he went quickly to the Horse Repository.
Bertie was hastily consulted, and Bertie as usual ran true.
"Sure I saw him," said Bertie. "Ain't he back yet? Gee! I'll bet he's froze! He'll be dead by now for sure. He had on awful nice clothes, but thin toes on his boots, sharp as needles, and gray socks with dots on them, and a waist on his coat like as if he wore corsets, and gray gloves—and a cane, Swell! He was some fine looker, you bet, but he wouldn't last long in that storm."
"Where did he go, Bertie," asked Mr. Steadman, trying to hold his voice to a tone of unconcern.
"He asked about teachers, and about how far it was to Watsons."