The taxicab dashed madly up Madison and up Fifth Avenue, and finally stopped--not before the Merriwether home, but in front of Number 777. Before he could ask the chauffeur what he meant by it both doors of the cab opened at once and two men sandwiched between them Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether. The one on the west, or Central Park, side threateningly held in his hand a business-like javelin--not at all the kind that silly people hang on the walls in their childish attempts at decorative barbarity. The man who half entered the taxicab from the east, or sidewalk, side held in his left hand a beer-schooner full of a colorless liquid that smoked, and in his right something completely but loosely covered by a white-linen handkerchief. “Please listen, Mr. Merriwether!” said the man with the glass. “Do nothing! Don't even move! Hear me first!” “Is my father--” “I am glad to say he is well and happy, and working in his office down-town. The message that brought you here was a subterfuge. Your father is as usual. We arranged it so you had to take this particular taxicab. Don't stir, please!” “What does all this mean?” asked Tom, impatiently. “I am about to have the honor of telling you,” answered the man. He had no hat and wore clerical garments. His clean-shaved face was pale--almost sallow--and young Merriwether noticed that his forehead was very high. His dark-brown eyes were full of the earnestness of all zealots, which makes you dislike to enter into an argument--first, because of the futility of arguing with a zealot; and, second, because said zealot probably knows a million times more about the subject than you and can outargue you without trouble. So Tom simply listened with an alertness that would not overlook any chance to strike back. “This glass contains fuming sulphuric acid. It will sear the face and destroy the eyesight with much rapidity and completeness. Also”--here he shook off the handkerchief from his right hand and showed a revolver--“this is the very latest in automatics; marvelously efficient; dumdum bullets; stop an elephant! I am about to solicit a great favor.” Tom Merriwether looked into the earnest, pleading eyes. Then he glanced on the other side, at the bull-necked husky with the business-like spear. Then he turned to the clerical garb. “I see I am in the hands of my friends!” said Tom, pleasantly. “The doctor was right,” said the man with the glass, as if to himself. “Come! Come!” said young Mr. Merriwether. “How much am I to give? You know, I never carry much cash with me.” “We, dear Mr. Merriwether,” said the pale-faced man in an amazingly deferential voice, “propose to be the donors. If you will kindly permit us we shall give you what is more costly than rubies.” “Yes?” Tom's voice was perhaps less skeptical than sarcastic.