“Yes, but this isn’t Chauncey.  It’s Cheyne—­lightning.  It goes.”

“Even so.  Guess we’d better wire the boy.  You’ve forgotten that, anyhow.”

“I’ll ask.”

When he returned with the father’s message bidding Harvey meet them in Boston at an appointed hour, he found Miss Kinzey laughing over the keys.  Then Milsom laughed too, for the frantic clicks from Los Angeles ran:  “We want to know why-why-why?  General uneasiness developed and spreading.”

Ten minutes later Chicago appealed to Miss Kinzey in these words:  “If crime of century is maturing please warn friends in time.  We are all getting to cover here.”

This was capped by a message from Topeka (and wherein Topeka was concerned even Milsom could not guess):  “Don’t shoot, Colonel.  We’ll come down.”

Cheyne smiled grimly at the consternation of his enemies when the telegrams were laid before him.  “They think we’re on the warpath.  Tell ’em we don’t feel like fighting just now, Milsom.  Tell ’em what we’re going for.  I guess you and Miss Kinsey had better come along, though it isn’t likely I shall do any business on the road.  Tell ’em the truth—­for once.”

So the truth was told.  Miss Kinzey clicked in the sentiment while the secretary added the memorable quotation, “Let us have peace,” and in board rooms two thousand miles away the representatives of sixty-three million dollars’ worth of variously manipulated railroad interests breathed more freely.  Cheyne was flying to meet the only son, so miraculously restored to him.  The bear was seeking his cub, not the bulls.  Hard men who had their knives drawn to fight for their financial lives put away the weapons and wished him God-speed, while half a dozen panic-smitten tin-pot toads perked up their heads and spoke of the wonderful things they would have done had not Cheyne buried the hatchet.

It was a busy week-end among the wires; for now that their anxiety was removed, men and cities hastened to accommodate.  Los Angeles called to San Diego and Barstow that the Southern California engineers might know and be ready in their lonely roundhouses; Barstow passed the word to the Atlantic and Pacific; and Albuquerque flung it the whole length of the Atchinson, Topeka, and Santa Fe management, even into Chicago.  An engine, combination-car with crew, and the great and gilded “Constance” private car were to be “expedited” over those two thousand three hundred and fifty miles.  The train would take precedence of one hundred and seventy-seven others meeting and passing; despatchers and crews of every one of those said trains must be notified.  Sixteen locomotives, sixteen engineers, and sixteen firemen would be needed—­each and every one the best available.  Two and one half minutes would be allowed for changing engines, three for watering, and two for coaling.  “Warn the men, and arrange tanks and chutes accordingly; for Harvey Cheyne is in a hurry, a hurry, a hurry,” sang the wires.  “Forty miles an hour will be expected, and division superintendents will accompany this special over their respective divisions.  From San Diego to Sixteenth Street, Chicago, let the magic carpet be laid down.  Hurry!  Oh, hurry!”