As the slow minutes dragged themselves away, his impatience mounted, but he kept himself in hand. Clancy knew his business--of that he was convinced--but what possible connection it could have with Mrs. Rutherford he was at a loss to determine. The luncheon hour had come and gone, and it was after three o'clock when Donald, eagerly watching, saw Clancy make the turn which brought him into sight, and saw him coming at a run down the sloping road. "What has happened, Clancy?" Donald cried, impetuously, as they came close. "Where have you been all these hours?" Peter's face was red with hurry and excitement. "I--I can't stop to explain," he panted. "I've only just time to make the train. I must be in New York to-night." He caught Donald's arm. "Is there a taxi I can get? The train leaves Tollenville in fifteen minutes. There's only barely time. Oh, Mr. Morris, for the love of God, don't stare at me like that. Tell me how to get a taxi. Quick!" Peter's excitement communicated itself to Morris. He was bewildered, astonished. He longed intensely to ask the questions for which there was no time, but Peter's insistence was overpowering. "I'll get a car for you here," he said, swiftly. "Saunders will make the train if it's a possibility. Your bag's still on the porch. Get it, while I----" He dashed across the lawn and around the corner of the house. In a moment, Peter heard the thin buzz of a starter, followed instantly by the heavy, rhythmic hum as the engine picked up, and in a few seconds more a big car rolled around the corner of the house. Donald Morris was standing on the running board. He dropped off as the car slowed down, and Peter, bag in hand, jumped into the seat beside the chauffeur. "Give her gas, Saunders," cried Morris. "You haven't a minute to spare. Good-bye, Clancy! For God's sake write or wire me." "I'll let you know! I'll let you know the minute----" Peter's voice was drowned by the roar of the engine as the car swung away. Down the broad road and through the great park gate the big car honked and whirred. Past picturesque artists' cottages and white-painted farmhouses it fled, and then, with slightly slackened pace, it rolled between ugly ranks of mountain boarding houses, down to the busy, noisy little station, where the train stood, panting to be gone. It was already in motion when Peter leaped upon the step, breathless, without a ticket, but thanking his lucky stars that he was in time. The train was crowded, and Peter had to wedge himself in beside a fat, jewelled lady, who ate frequently and copiously from greasy paper packages all the way to the junction, but Peter did not even notice the discomfort, so occupied was he with his own thoughts. They were briefly broken in upon when the conductor demanded a ticket, but after Peter had paid for one, and ascertained that he would have time to send a telegram from the junction, he relapsed again into depths of intricate speculation.