In an office on lower Wall Street, New York, overlooking the East River with its bustle of water traffic, sat Stephen Melville, the man to whom Rook’s message had been addressed—a message that, as we know, he had not received. Melville was a man of about forty-five, heavy-jawed, coarse-lipped and bulky-necked, with a big, heavy body. But about the man there was, withal, a suggestion of brutal strength.

On the door of Melville’s office was painted the word “Private.” Without this screened-off sanctum was a busy room full of clerks and stenographers. On the door of this outer office appeared the words: “General Offices of the Artillery Devices, L’t’d.—Stephen Melville, President.”

At the precise moment that we are looking in on the offices of the Artillery Devices, L’t’d, a man whom we have seen before—to wit, Joshua Sawdon, owner of Sawdon’s Circus—shoved his way, and essayed to continue to shove his way, past an office boy, who, however, held up the showman at the rail behind which were the desks of the stenographers and clerks aforesaid.

Mr. Sawdon appeared to be out of temper. Seeing that it was in vain for him to try to get past the boy without sending in his name, he hastily wrote on a bit of paper:

“Young Ingersoll has gotten away. Must see you at once.—Sawdon.”

He folded this and handed it to the boy, telling him to take it in to Mr. Melville and “look slippy.” Then Mr. Sawdon adjusted his diamond, at which the clerks had been gazing in awe, and awaited the great man’s summons. It came quickly.

“De boss ses youse is ter come right in,” said the office boy on his return, with considerably more respect in his tones than he had used before.

Sawdon lost no time in obeying this injunction. As soon as he was inside the private office, Melville motioned him to a chair.

“What the dickens is the meaning of this?” he demanded with a lowering brow, indicating the circus man’s scrawl.

“It’s plain enough, aint it?” rejoined Sawdon. “The kid’s vamoosed, gone, skipped.”

“And I paid you to see that he was kept with the show and in ignorance of everything but the fact that he was a circus slave,” thundered Melville. “How did this thing happen?”

“Well, what are you to do when a bunch of ginks come along in a flying automobile and steal him right out of the air before your eyes?” protested Sawdon, mopping his brow.

“Stop raving and tell me what happened,” demanded Melville angrily.

“Just this,” rejoined Sawdon, “he was kidnapped in the air”; and he went on to explain to Melville how the boys had aided Ralph to escape from the balloon.

“And,” he concluded, “we didn’t get a chance to get a hold of the kid again. First they took him to the home of a guy named Parisgreen, or something like that, an’ then——”

“Hold on,” demanded Melville angrily, but with a note of eagerness in his voice, “this man Parisgreen, as you call him—he lives near to Pokeville?”

“That’s the gook.”

“His name’s not Parisgreen at all then. It’s Peregrine; an inventor, isn’t he?”

“Well, he and those kids invented a way of getting that kid away from us, all right, all right.”

“Where is the boy now?”

“In Boston, I guess. I learned later that that’s where those kids were headed for when we passed ’em on the road. But they had Ralph hidden, else I’d have got him back all right.”

“A nice mess you’ve made of it,” growled Melville angrily. “Well?” he demanded, looking up as the office boy tapped timidly and then opened the door.

“Here’s Mr. Sykes to see you, sir,” he announced.

“Good!” exclaimed Melville. “Show him in. Sawdon, you’ll have to step outside for a while.” The showman obeyed. He evidently stood in considerable awe of Melville, and showed no hesitation in carrying out the curt order. As he stepped out a man of a very different cut stepped in. The newcomer was Jerome Sykes, the silent partner of the Artillery Devices Company. He was a gray-haired man, tall, slender, with the face of a fox, a sharp, inquisitive manner and general air of furtiveness.

As the door closed he gave Melville a crisp nod, and then asked sharply:

“Any news from Boston?”

“None from Rook or Radcliff. I don’t know whether they succeeded in getting a line on Peregrine’s vanishing gun or not; but I’ve just heard some bad news from that fellow you passed.”

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Sawdon. He’s the circus man who was given charge of Ralph Ingersoll. He’s just come in to tell me that the boy has gone, and, curiously enough, the people who have taken him are in some way connected with Peregrine, whose invention we are after.”

“Phew! That’s odd, indeed. But Ralph Ingersoll is your personal affair. What I came to see you about is this; we’ve got to have that device of Peregrine’s or we’re in a hole we won’t get out of.”

“I know that,” said Melville gloomily. “From what I’ve heard it’s the kind of thing the government has been looking for. We know it’s not been patented yet, and if only Rook and Radcliff succeed——”

“You haven’t heard from them?”

“Not a word. But they are reliable men and if it is possible to get hold of Peregrine’s models or papers they will accomplish it.”

“Look here, Melville,” struck in the fox-faced Mr. Sykes, “do you know where to find your men in Boston?”

“Yes. I can lay my finger on them at any time.”

“All right then; you go to Boston yourself at once. If the Artillery Devices Company is going to keep its head above water, we’ve got to have that vanishing gun invention of Peregrine’s. He won’t sell, so it’s fair to take it from him by trickery if we can. Are you able to start for Boston at once?”

“Yes. Right away, practically. I agree with you that something must be done and done quick, too.”

And so it came about that an hour later Melville and Sawdon were sitting in a New York, New Haven and Hartford coach bound for Boston. As the train flew along Melville idly asked Sawdon how his circus was getting along.

“It ain’t getting along at all,” was the gruff rejoinder. “I’ve quit it cold. It seems we had no luck after the boy got away from us. It had been bad enough before that. Then we lost that lion, Wallace. He was a big drawing card.”

“And so you quit?”

“Yes; just ducked right out. I guess my performers were a sore bunch when they found that I’d left ’em in the lurch, but it couldn’t be helped. But what about this kid Ingersoll, as he’s called? Of course, I know in a general way that he’s entitled to something you’ve got, and that you don’t want him to get.”

“Entitled to something I’ve got?” said Melville, with a sneering laugh. “He’s entitled to all I’ve got—only he isn’t going to get it.”