Blake had suspected; but he had refused to believe. Now he knew. And half an hour later, "The Vagrant," under full head of steam, was surging down the Sound with a great, white bone in her teeth and a great, fan- like wake spreading huge rollers from her trim stern.
She anchored off Thirty-Fourth Street. The launch was ready almost as the chain rattled. Blake's big French car was waiting for him at the pier; and, with scant regard for the speed ordinances, it bore him swiftly through the traffic-thronged streets to lower Fifth Avenue, and to the house of Dr. DeLancey.
The passing of the years had made but little change in either the good doctor or his abode. His office looked the same—dry and musty. He looked the same—shrewd and kindly.
"Come in," he said, with the testiness that in him was cordiality concentrated. "Come in. Don't stand there like a gump stretching my bell- wire all out of shape. Come in. Come in."
Blake entered.
"Well," said the doctor, leading the way into his office. "What's the matter now. Sick? You don't look it. If all my patients were like you and the Schuylers, I'd starve to death." He fumbled with an old-fashioned cedar cigar chest. "Smoke?"
Blake took the cigar, and lighted it.
"Well," said the doctor, again. "For heaven's sake, what's the matter! Have you become suddenly dumb? You have a tongue, haven't you? If you have, for goodness' sake, use it."
Blake answered, slowly:
"Doctor, it's about Jack Schuyler."