“Random, of Random & Griggs?” inquired Matt, showing some surprise.
“What other Random could it be?”
Matt helped himself to a cold roast beef sandwich and a glass of lemonade.
“Tell me what happened to you, Joe,” said he. “I can eat and listen at the same time. Besides, I guess I’m hungrier than you are. You had dinner, and I didn’t.”
McGlory told of his call at the Liberty Street office, of meeting Random, of his talk with Random in the restaurant, of Random’s going with him to the Flatiron Building, of the failure to find Matt, and of the yarn told by the driver of the red car.
“We came through the country lickety-whoop,” the cowboy finished, “but it was the longest kind of a ride, and I wondered what in Sam Hill you were doing ’way over in Massachusetts. It was after sundown when we got to this place. Some one met the driver of the red car at the door, and said that Motor Matt hadn’t come yet, and that we were to wait for him. Random and I came into this room. By and by, a servant began to spread the table for chuck-pile, but layin’ covers for only two. I guessed a little about that, and asked the servant who he was intending to leave out, Random or Motor Matt. It was orders, he said, and that was all he knew about it.
“After a while, Random got up, told me to wait, and said he would try and find some one who could tell him something. Next thing I know, you walk in on me, and the door is locked behind you. Speak to me about this! Where’s Random?”
“The man’s name isn’t Random, Joe,” said Matt, “but Tibbits.”
“Tibbits?” echoed McGlory blankly. “But he met me at Random’s office.”
“That may be, but he’s Tibbits, just the same.”