“Is Mr. Tyson at home?” Randy inquired.
“He is at home, yes,” replied the servant, studying critically the dust-covered caller. “Business with him?”
“I have. You just tell him I am Randy Powell, from Seaside Park, and I came about the automobile accident.”
The servant left Randy standing in the vestibule until a portly, consequential-looking man appeared. He viewed Randy in a shrewd, supercilious way.
“What’s your business?” he challenged crisply.
“Are you Mr. Tyson?”
“Never mind that. What are you after?”
“But I do mind it,” retorted Randy boldly. “If you are Mr. Tyson, it was your machine that ran down a friend of mine back at Seaside Park a couple of hours ago, and I want to know what you have done with him.”
Mr. Tyson looked a trifle flustered; then very much annoyed. He said:
“I’ve done nothing with him. He just came along. Say, I hope you haven’t gone and stirred up a lot of notoriety and trouble for me along the line.”