“I’ve got a date at one that means life and death to me.  Would you mind taking me down to the nearest Elevated—­or—­here, let me run it.”

Almost before Barbara was aware of what was happening they had changed places and the machine, under Monty’s guidance, was tearing over the ground.

“Of all the casual people,” said the girl, by no means unequal to the excitement, “I believe you’re kidnapping me.”

But when she saw the grim look on Monty’s face and one policeman after another warned him she became seriously alarmed.  “Monty Brewster, this pace is positively dangerous.”

“Perhaps it is,” he responded, “but if they haven’t sense enough to keep out of the way they shouldn’t kick if they get run over.”

“I don’t mean the people or the automobiles or traps or trees or monuments, Monty; I mean you and me.  I know we’ll either be killed or arrested.”

“This isn’t anything to the gait I’ll be going if everything turns out as I expect.  Don’t be worried, Babs.  Besides it’s one now.  Lord, I didn’t dream it was so late.”

“Is your appointment so important?” she asked, hanging on.

“Well, I should say it is, and—­look out—­you blooming idiot!  Do you want to get killed?” The last remark was hurled back at an indignant pedestrian who had escaped destruction by the merest chance.

“Here we are,” he said, as they drew up beside the entrance to the Elevated.  “Thanks awfully,—­you’re a corker,—­sorry to leave you this way.  I’ll tell you all about it later.  You’re a dear to help me keep my appointment.”

“Seems to me you helped yourself,” she cried after him as he darted up the steps.  “Come up for tea some day and tell me who the lady is.”

After he had gone Miss Drew turned to her chauffeur, who was in the tonneau.  Then she laughed unrestrainedly, and the faintest shadow of a grin stole over the man’s face.

“Beg pardon, Miss,” he said, “but I’d back Mr. Brewster against Fournier any day.”

Only half an hour late, Brewster entered the office of Messrs. Grant & Ripley, flushed, eager, and unconscious of the big splotch of mud that decorated his cheek.

“Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting,” he apologized.

“Sherlock Holmes would say that you had been driving, Mr. Brewster,” said Mr. Ripley, shaking the young man’s hand.

“He would miss it, Mr. Ripley.  I’ve been flying.  What have you heard from Montana?” He could no longer check the impatient question, which came out so suddenly that the attorneys laughed irresistibly, Brewster Joining them an instant later.  They laid before him a half dozen telegrams, responses from bankers, lawyers, and mine-operators in Montana.  These messages established beyond doubt the extent of James T. Sedgwick’s wealth; it was reported to be even greater than shown by the actual figures.

“And what does Mr. Jones say?” demanded Montgomery.