“I must see him at once—­on important business.  Wake him up, my lad; will you?”

“Wait a minute,” said the youth, and left the window.  Presently he opened the front door, slipped gently out and closed the door behind him.

“Let’s sit in your car,” he said, in soft, quiet tones.  “We can talk more freely there.”

“But I must see Fogerty at once!” protested Arthur.

“I’m Fogerty.”

“Q.  Fogerty?”

“Quintus Fogerty—­the first and last and only individual of that name.”

Arthur hesitated; he was terribly disappointed.

“Are you a detective?” he enquired.

“By profession.”

“But you can’t be very old.”

The boy laughed.

“I’m no antiquity, sir,” said he, “but I’ve shed the knickerbockers long ago.  Who sent you to me?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m tired.  I’ve been busy twenty-three weeks.  Just finished my case yesterday and need a rest—­a good long rest.  But if you want a man I’ll refer you to a friend.”

“Gorman, of the Waldorf, sent me to you—­and said you’d help me.”

“Oh; that’s different.  Case urgent, sir?”

“Very.  The young lady I’m engaged to marry was abducted less than three hours ago.”

Fogerty lighted another cigarette and the match showed Arthur that the young face was deeply lined, while two cold gray eyes stared blankly into his own.

“Let’s sit in your limousine, sir,” he repeated.

When they had taken their places behind the closed doors the boy asked Arthur to tell him “all about it, and don’t forget any details, please.”  So Weldon hastily told the events of the evening and gave a history of Mershone and his relations with Miss Merrick.  The story was not half told when Fogerty said: 

“Tell your man to drive to the police station.”

On the way Arthur resumed his rapid recital and strove to post the young detective as well as he was able.  Fogerty made no remarks, nor did he ask a single question until Weldon had told him everything he could think of.  Then he made a few pointed enquiries and presently they had arrived at the station.

The desk sergeant bowed with great respect to the youthful detective.  By the dim light Arthur was now able to examine Fogerty for the first time.

He was small, slim and lean.  His face attested to but eighteen or nineteen years, in spite of its deep lines and serious expression.  Although his hair was tangled and unkempt Fogerty’s clothing and linen were neat and of good quality.  He wore a Scotch cap and a horseshoe pin in his cravat.

One might have imagined him to be an errand boy, a clerk, a chauffeur, a salesman or a house man.  You might have placed him in almost any middle-class walk in life.  Perhaps, thought Arthur, he might even be a good detective! yet his personality scarcely indicated it.

“Mershone in, Billy?” the detective asked the desk sergeant.