"Not at home, Sir Henry; but, fortunately, I know where to find him with but little loss of time," he said, and pressed twice upon an electric button beside his desk.

"My motor will be at the door in a couple of minutes, and with ordinary luck we ought to be able to pick him up inside of the next half-hour." Sir Henry--Sir Henry Wilding, Bart., to give him his full name and title--a handsome, well-set-up man of about forty years of age, well groomed, and with the upright bearing which comes of military training, twisted round on his heel at this and gave the superintendent an almost grateful look.
"I hope so--God knows I hope so, Mr.Narkom," he said agitatedly.

"Time is the one important thing at present.

The suspense and uncertainty are getting on my nerves so horribly that the very minutes seem endless.
Remember, there are only three days before the race, and if those rascals, whoever they are, get at Black Riot before then, God help me--that's all! And if this man Cleek can't probe the diabolical mystery, they _will_ get at her, too, and put Logan where they put Tolliver, the brutes!" "You may trust Cleek to see that they don't, Sir Henry.

It is just the kind of case he will glory in; and if Black Riot is all that you believe her, you'll carry off the Derby in spite of these enterprising gentry who--Hallo! here's the motor.