Part 17 (1/2)
”Anything good?” asked the managing editor.
”The lid has been jammed on tight. No wine in any restaurant after one o'clock. There'll be a roundup of every gunman in town.”
”Good work! Go to it.”
It was one o'clock when Norton turned in his last sheet of copy and started for home. Just outside the entrance to the building a man with a slouch hat drawn down over his eyes stepped forward.
”Mr. Norton?”
”Yes.” Norton stepped back suspiciously.
The other chuckled, raised and lowered his hat swiftly.
”Good lord!” murmured the reporter.
”Will you take a ride with me in a taxi?”
”All the way to Syracuse, if you say so. Well, I'll be tinker d--d!”
”No names, please!”
What took place in that taxicab was never generally known. But at ten o'clock the next morning Norton surprised the elevator boy by going out. Norton proceeded down-town to the national bank, where he deposited $5,000 in bills of large denominations. The teller had some difficulty in counting them. They stuck together and retained the sodden appearance of money recently submerged in water.
Florence was delighted at the idea of a coaching party. Often during her schoolgirl days she had seen the fas.h.i.+onable coaches go careening along the road, with the sharp, clear note of the bugle rising above the thunder of hoofs and rattling of wheels. Jones was not enthusiastic; neither was he a killjoy.
”But you are to go along, too,” said Florence.
”I, Miss Florence?”
”The countess invited you especially. You will go with a hamper.”
”Ah, in my capacity as butler; very good, Miss Florence.” To her he gave no sign of his secret great satisfaction.
The hour arrived, and the gay party bowled away. They wound in and out of the streets toward the country to the crack of the whip and the blare of the horn. Florence's enjoyment would have been perfect had it not been for the absence of Norton. Why hadn't he been invited? She did not ask because she did not care to disclose to the countess her interest in the reporter. They were nearing the limits of the city, when the coach was forced to take a sharp turn to avoid an automobile in trouble. The man puttering at the engine raised his head. It was Norton, and Florence waved her hand vigorously.
”A coaching party,” he murmured; ”and your Uncle James was not invited!
Oh, very well!” He laughed, and suddenly grew serious. It would not hurt to find out where that coach was going.
He set to work savagely, located the trouble, righted it, and set off for the Hargreave home. He found Susan and bombarded her with questions which to Susan came with the rapidity of rain upon the roof.
”So Jones went along?”
”In his capacity of butler only.”
Norton smiled. ”Well, I'll take a jaunt out there myself. You are sure of the location?”
”Yes.”
”Well, good-by. I'll go as a waiter, since they wouldn't invite me.
I'm one of the best little waiters you ever heard of; and all things come to him who waits.”