"The boy don't care for me, he's mad at me," muttered Prebbles wearily, "but if I can make up with him, maybe he can be saved. What's this about the accident to Traquair? What does Newt know about Murgatroyd? No matter what happens, I've got to get the boy out of Murgatroyd's clutches. If Newt stays with him, he'll be as bad as he is."
It was after midnight when Prebbles dropped weakly into a chair.
"Motor Matt will help me," he muttered.
The thought had come to him like a flash of inspiration. And another inspiration had come to him, as well. He made a copy of the letter, then placed the original in its envelope, carefully resealed it, and went to the broker's office. To take the collected letters from the safe, place them and the one from Steele in a large envelope and address the envelope to "Mr. George Hobbes, General Delivery, Bismarck, N. D.," consumed only a few minutes.
"Motor Matt will know how to do the rest of it," thought the old clerk. "He's a clever lad, and he helps people. He helped Mrs. Traquair and he'll help Prebbles. I'm done with this office for good, and I'm glad of it."
He looked around the room with a grim laugh.
"I never thought I'd be pulling the pin on myself," he said aloud. "Maybe it's the poorhouse for mine, but I'll be glad to starve if I can make up with Newt and save him from that robber, Murgatroyd."
He turned off the light and closed and locked the office door. An hour later he had dropped the long envelope into a letter box and was back in his room. At seven in the morning he had boarded the northbound train for Minnewaukon and Devil's Lake. Motor Matt was at Fort Totten, on the south shore of the lake, and Prebbles would be at the fort in the afternoon.
The king of the motor boys was the old man's hope. Prebbles knew Matt, and had abundant faith in his ability to accomplish seemingly impossible things.