There was a knock at the study door.

"Go 'way!" grunted Neil.

"Oh, come in," called Paul Gale, without, however, removing his drowsy
gaze from the ceiling or changing his position.

"I beg your pardon. I am looking for Mr. Gale, and--"

Paul dropped his legs over the side of the couch and sat up, blinking at
the visitor. Neil followed his example. The caller was a carefully
dressed man of about thirty-five, scarcely taller than Neil, but broader
of shoulder. Paul recognized him, and, rising, shook hands.

"How do you do, Mr. Brill? Glad to see you. Sit down, won't you? I guess
we were both pretty nigh asleep when you knocked."

"Small wonder," responded the visitor affably. "After the work you did
this afternoon you deserve sleep, and anything else you want." He laid
aside his coat and hat and sank into the chair which Paul proffered.

"By the way," continued the latter, "I don't think you've met my friend,
Neil Fletcher. Neil, this is Mr. Brill, of Robinson; one of their
coaches." The two shook hands.

"I'm delighted to meet the hero--I should say one of the heroes--of the
day," said Mr. Brill. "That run was splendid; the way in which you two
fellows got your speed up before you reached the line was worth coming
over here to see, really it was."