“If I told you haf the things in my head you’d guess I was bug.”
Goodchurch laughed.
“I’d need more than that to reckon Ivor McLagan that way.” He stood up. “Well, I’ll surely do as you ask, right away. And I guess I’ll take a trip out to view that wreck myself—instead of sending any of the boys.”
McLagan held out a hand which the official gripped with cordiality.
“Why, do,” he said. “And make use of my shanty all you please. My boy’ll be along there if I’m away, and he’ll fix you right. I’ll leave word. An’, say,” he added with a shrewd smile as he moved towards the door, “if you’re not looking for a scare, don’t get aboard of that craft when the sun’s shining.”
“What? Say——”
But McLagan shook his head. “I’m not going to hand you a thing else,” he said laughingly. “I’m not yearning for you to get beyond the limits of your belief in my sanity. Maybe I won’t see you again till I get through with my trip. So long.”
McLagan hurried down the sidewalk in the direction of the Speedway. He was thinking with a concentration that left him oblivious to his surroundings and with only his objective clear in his mind. Once he smiled to himself as the thought of Alan Goodchurch’s remark about his sanity flashed intrusively upon his preoccupation. He felt sure that it was as well for his purpose that he had added nothing of the thing absorbing him now to that which he had imparted to the Commissioner. No. The thing he had in his mind must remain there untold until he had completed the chain of circumstances he saw linking themselves together. Either he was stark, staring, raving mad, or——