CHAPTER EIGHT THE MORGAN MYSTERY
THE OLD STONE BLACKSMITH SHOP AT STAFFORD

It was Wednesday, August 22, that we left Buffalo. In some stray
notes made by my companion, I find this enthusiastic description
of the start.

"Toof! toof! on it comes like a gigantic bird, its red breast
throbbing, its black wings quivering; it swerves to the right, to
the left, and with a quick sweep circles about and stands panting
at the curb impatient to be off.

"I hastily mount and make ready for the long flight. The chauffeur
grasps the iron reins, something is pulled, and something is
pressed,--'Chic--chic--whirr--whirr--r--r,' we are off. Through
the rich foliage of noble trees we catch last glimpses of
beautiful homes gay with flags, with masses of flowers and broad,
green lawns.

"In a moment we are in the crowded streets where cars, omnibuses,
cabs, carriages, trucks, and wagons of every description are
hurrying pell-mell in every direction. The automobile glides like
a thing of life in and out, snorting with vexation if blocked for
an instant.

"Soon we are out of the hurly-burly; the homes melt away into the