"
But at first, across the city and through Brooklyn, for all his
impatience, it was necessarily slow--after that, Jimmie Dale took
chances, and, once on the country roads of Long Island, the big,
powerful car tore through the night like a greyhound whose leash is
slipped.
A half hour passed--Jimmie Dale's eyes shifting occasionally from the
gray thread of road ahead of him under the glare of the dancing lamps,
to the road map spread out at his feet, upon which, from time to time,
he focused his pocket flashlight. And then, finally, he slowed the car
to a snail's pace--he should be very near his destination--that very
ultra-exclusive subdivision of Charleton Park Manor.
On either side of the road now was quite a thickly set stretch of wooded
land, rising slightly on the right--and this Jimmie Dale scrutinised
sharply. In fact, he stopped for an instant as he came opposite to a
wagon track--it seemed to be little more than that--that led in through
the trees.
"If it's not too far from the seat of war," commented Jimmie Dale to
himself, as he went on again, "it will do admirably."
And then, a hundred yards farther on, Jimmie Dale nodded his head in
satisfaction--he was passing the rather ornate stone pillars that marked
the entrance to Charleton Park Manor, and on which the initial promoters
of the subdivision, the real-estate people, had evidently deemed it good
advertising policy to expend a small fortune.
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