“Gee!” he muttered.  “Dis has de gape-wagon skun a mile.  Wish I could pass de hat—­I’d make de killin’ of me young life.  Pipe de hydrogen hair on de gran’mother wid de sparkler on her thumb an’ weeps in her eyes, an’ look at de guy wid de yellow gloves rolled back on his wrists to heighten de intelligint look on his face, dat she’s kiddin’—­I could play dem to a fare-thee-well if I only had de chanst.  Oh, gee!”—­the Flopper sighed—­“an’ I got to let it go!”

With regret still poignantly affecting him, the Flopper passed on into the private car, and the porter ushered him into a sort of combination observation and sitting-room compartment.  The Flopper’s eyes lifted and made a quick, comprehensive tour of his surroundings.  The young woman who had spoken to him on the platform was reclining on a couch; the nurse sat on the foot of the couch; and the man was tilted back in an armchair against the window.

The young woman raised herself to a sitting posture and held out her hand.

“I am Mrs. Thornton,” she said, with a smile.  “This is my husband, and this is Miss Harvey, my nurse.  It was very good of you to come, Mr.—?” she paused invitingly.

“Coogan,” supplied the Flopper.  “Michael Coogan.”

“Let me offer you a chair, Mr. Coogan,” said Thornton, a little ironically, pushing one toward the Flopper.  “Or would you be more comfortable on the floor?”

The Flopper’s eyelids fell—­covering a quick, ugly glint.

“T’anks!” he said—­and swung himself, by his arms, into the chair.

“I want you to tell me all about this strange man in Needley, and how you came to hear of him and believe in him,” said Mrs. Thornton.  “I was only able to get just the barest outline of it out there on the platform with the crowd around.”

“Dat’s easy,” said the Flopper earnestly.  “Sure, I’ll tell you.  I saw a piece about dis Patriarch in one of de Noo Yoik papers, so I writes to de postmaster of de town to find out if he was on de level—­see?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Thornton.  “And what did the postmaster say?”

The Flopper took Hiram Higgins’ letter from his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Thornton.

“Youse can read it fer yerself, mum,” he said, with an air of one delivering a final and irrefutable argument.

Mrs. Thornton read the letter carefully, almost anxiously.

“If only a part of this is true,” she said wistfully, passing it to her husband, “it is perfectly wonderful.”

Mr. Thornton read it—­with a grin.

“I don’t know, I am sure,” he observed caustically, handing the letter to Miss Harvey, “how the medical profession would stand on this—­would your school endorse it, nurse?”

Miss Harvey read it with her back to the others—­then she glanced at Mrs. Thornton—­and checked herself as she was about to speak.  She folded the letter slowly and returned it to the Flopper without comment.