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.” “Why should I--unless you deserve it.” “Ha--hum!” muttered the millionaire. “See here, come in. You look reasonable--more so than that young wildcat friend of yours unless he has his own way.” Mr. Tyson led Randy into a magnificently furnished room, nodded him to a chair and sat down facing him. “See here,” he spoke, “you just tell me how much rumpus you have raised about this unfortunate affair.” “I’ve raised no rumpus,” declared Randy, “I’ve simply run down your automobile, which the police of Seaside Park didn’t seem able or inclined to do.” “I’m glad of that,” said Mr. Tyson, apparently greatly relieved, “and there will be no trouble at all in fixing up things satisfactorily all around. You would have heard from me before midnight, for this Pep--ought to be called Pepper--just ordered that his friend at Seaside Park--I suppose it’s you?” “Yes, it’s me,” declared Randy. “Well, he wanted word sent to you.” “Is he badly hurt?” inquired Randy solicitously. “Not at all--but that isn’t it. See here, lad, because I’m supposed to have a lot of money I seem to be a mark for everybody. I have been unfortunate enough to have various accidents with my machine. A month ago I ran down a man. About all he did was to stub his toe, but he’s sued me for twenty thousand dollars damages and has a doctor ready to swear he is crippled for life. Last week I ran over a valuable dog at Seaside Park and the magistrate fined me fifty dollars for speeding over the limit, and said if there was another complaint he would give me a jail sentence. Ugh! fine thing to be rich; isn’t it?” Mr. Tyson really looked so disgusted that Randy could not refrain from smiling. “The newspapers got hold of it and pictured me as a regular ogre. Now it wasn’t our fault at all when this friend of yours got hurt this evening. He had no business in the street--don’t you see?” “Say, if he hadn’t got there where would that child in the baby carriage be?” demanded Randy indignantly.