The hours till then seemed to have leaden feet to the
anxious young officer.
It was shortly before this that Roy, returning from an errand in town in
the Prescott automobile, was halted at the roadside by a figure which
stepped from the hedge-row, and, holding up a cautioning finger, uttered a
sharp:
"Hist!"
Roy, turning, saw a man, seemingly a workingman, from his overalls, at the
side of the machine.
"What is it? What do you want?" demanded Roy.
"I have a message for you," said the man, speaking in a slightly foreign
accent; "you are in great danger. Your enemies plot it."
"My enemies!" exclaimed Roy.
"Yes, your enemies at the Mortlake factory."
"Let's see," said Roy thoughtfully, "you're one of the workmen at the
Mortlake plant, aren't you?"
"I _was_ once," said the man, with a vindictive inflection, "but I am so
no longer. Mortlake discharged me."
"Discharged you, eh? Well, what's that got to do with me?"
Roy looked curiously at the man.
"Just this much. I know the meanness that Mortlake plans to do to you. You
have bad and wicked enemies at our place."
"Humph! I guess there may be some truth in that," said Roy with a rather
grim inflection. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
"Just this: I am an honest man. I do not want to see harm come to you or
to your sister.
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