The Nadia was in and side-tracked, with a sleepy porter on guard.  Ford climbed to the platform and asked for the president.

“Yas, suh; dis is Mr. Colbrith’s cyar; but he don’t see no newspapuh men—­no, suh.  Besides, dey’s just gettin’ up,” was the rebuff; but Ford ignored it.

“‘They?’ Then Mr. Colbrith isn’t alone?”

“No, suh; got a pahty ’long with him—­a young gentleman and two ladies; yes, suh.  Mr. Colbrith nebber goes nowhah’s ’dout he teks a pahty in de cyar.”

“Heavens!” groaned Ford, under his breath; “as if the thing wasn’t complicated enough without making a picnic of it!” Then aloud.  “I wish to go in.  My name is Ford, and Mr. Colbrith is expecting me.”

“Sho’ you isn’t a newspapuh man?”

“Of course not,” said Ford shortly.

“All right, suh,” said the negro; and he made way and opened the door.

The Nadia was a commodious hotel on wheels, with a kitchen and buffet forward, four state-rooms opening upon a narrow side vestibule, and a large dining and lounging room looking out through full-length windows upon a deep, “umbrella-roofed” platform at the rear.

There was no one in the large compartment when Ford reached it; but a moment later a door opened and closed in the vestibule, and Adair made his appearance.  Ford drew a breath of relief and shook hands with his backer.

“I’m glad it’s you, Mr. Adair.  I’ve been scenting all sorts of hindrances since the porter told me there was a party aboard.”

The young man without an avocation dropped into the easiest of the wicker chairs and felt in his pockets for his cigarette case.

“Your prophetic soul didn’t deceive you any,” he laughed.  “The hindrances are here in full force.  It is one of Uncle Sidney’s notions never to travel without a tail like a Highland chieftain’s.  I had a foreboding that he’d ask somebody, so I took it upon myself to fill up his passenger list with Aunt Hetty, my sister, and my uncle’s nephew.”

“I understand,” said Ford, and would have plunged forthwith into the business pool; but Adair stopped him with a gesture of dismay.

“Not before breakfast, if you love me, my dear fellow!” he protested, with a little grimace that instantly set the reminiscent part of Ford’s brain at work.  “After I’ve had something to eat—­”

The interruption was the noiseless entrance of a motherly little lady in gray, with kindly eyes and a touch of silver in the fair hair drawn smoothly back from her forehead.

“This is Mr. Stuart Ford, I am sure,” she said, giving her hand to the young engineer before Adair could introduce him.  “You look enough like your father to make me recognize you at once.”

Ford was a little embarrassed by the gratefully informal greeting.

“Ought I to remember you, Mrs. Adair?” he asked ingenuously.

“Oh, no, indeed.  I knew your father as a young man before he married and went to the farther West.  The Fords and the Colbriths and the Stanbrooks are all from the same little town in central Illinois, you know.”