The name of Swift worked like magic, even in such a ceremonious office as that of Mr. Plum, and a moment later Tom was pouring out a quick statement of the matter, suggesting that the lawyer hold himself in readiness to go with Tom and Ned to the office of the investment concern where, it appeared, Mr. Newton was being held in custody, preparatory to being arraigned before a police officer for commitment to a cell.
“I’ll call for you in my electric runabout,” finished Tom. “What’s that—can it go? Mr. Plum, when that car was built it was the speediest one on the road, and it has never yet been passed! Yes, we’ll be there in a jiffy!”
Turning to his chum as he hung up the receiver, Tom remarked:
“Now come on, Ned, we’ll get a move on. But we’ll take a few sinews of war with us!”
Quickly he opened the big chest he had locked, and from an inner compartment in it he extracted a sheaf of crisp bills whose yellow color told of high denominations.
“They always have to accept bail in these cases, Ned,” remarked the young inventor, “and cash always talks. Your dad will be able to sleep at home to-night.”
“Thanks,” murmured Ned, and, though he did not say it, he had had a horrible vision of his beloved father spending the night in a cell like some convicted felon.
“Look after the treasure chest, Dad!” called Tom to his father as he hurried out with his chum.
“I certainly will if you’ve got any more cash in it,” said the aged inventor, with a smile. “I didn’t know you planned to keep money in there, Tom.”
“I don’t—not as a rule. But this was some that came in when Ned wasn’t around and I didn’t have time to bank it, and it didn’t belong in the office safe. Now, Ned, hustle’s the word!”