"I'm willing to take a chance, Mrs. Traquair," said he. "If you will come to the Gladstone House at three o'clock this afternoon, we'll have a lawyer draw up the papers, and I'll give you your money. Can I take that model with me to the hotel? I'm a stranger to you, so I'll leave twenty dollars in place of the model."
"Who'll I ask for when I come to the hotel?" inquired Mrs. Traquair.
This unexpected stroke of fortune seemed to have dazed her. She had heard Murgatroyd call Matt by name, but she did not appear to remember.
"Matt King," the young motorist answered.
A cry of astonishment fell from Mrs. Traquair's lips.
"I've heard my husband speak of you dozens of times!" she exclaimed. "A friend of his, in Chicago, sent him a newspaper clipping about you. Motor Matt is what you were called in the newspaper article, and you had a flying machine——"
"A dirigible balloon, Mrs. Traquair," interrupted Matt. "May I take the model?"
"Yes, yes," answered the woman eagerly, "do whatever you please—I am sure Harry would have it so if he could be here and speak for himself. Heaven is kind to raise me up a friend like you, at such a time."
Hope glowed in Mrs. Traquair's face—for the first time, it may be, since her husband's death—and Matt was happy, for it was a pleasure to know that he was doing some good in the world while helping himself.
A few minutes later, with the telescope grip in his hand, he left the house and made his way swiftly in the direction of the hotel.