"Rush him here. I want to speak to him."
"Who shall I—"
"No matter who. Get him here quick."
There must have been something in the tone that carried a command, for almost immediately a weak, panting voice answered:
"This—is—Davis, sir."
"I'm Christopher Burton, the son of—"
"Yes, sir, I get it."
"I've left at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-seventh Street a bus numbered 1079 that's on its way down town; in it was a man that looked like Stuart. Know who I mean?"
"Jove! You bet I do! Well?"
"He was togged out in an old brown ulster, worn trousers, and boots that were all splashed with plaster or paint, and he had white hair, a white beard, a slouch hat, and a bag. It may not be he at all, you know; but his hands—say—hello—hello—Davis—hello—the darn operator's cut me off."