Now it is not often that a “swell bloke” like that visits a station house at such hours. The sergeant gazed at him in alarm, expecting a burglary, a murder, or perhaps even a dynamite plot.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.
The man dashed up to the desk, breathless from his unusual exertion.
“My boy!” he cried. “Where is he?”
“Your boy?” echoed the sergeant. “Where is he? What on earth?”
The sergeant thought he had a lunatic then.
“My boy!” reiterated the man excitedly. “Chauncey! He’s a prisoner here!”
The officer shook his head with a puzzled look.
“I’ve got nobody named Chauncey,” said he. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”
The man happened to think of the telegram; he glanced at it.