Half an hour! Had he done it?
Had he come anywhere near doing it? He did not know. He was in the city
at last--and now he had to moderate his speed; but, by keeping to the
less frequented streets, he could still drive at a fast pace. One piece
of good fortune had been his--the long motor coat he had found in the
car with which to cover the rags of Larry the Bat, and without which he
would have been obliged to leave the car somewhere on the outskirts of
the city, and to trust, like Mike Hagan, to other and slower means of
transportation.
Blocks away from Hagan's tenement, he ran the car into a lane, slipped
off the motor coat, and from his pocket whipped out the little metal
insignia case--and in another moment a diamond-shaped gray seal was
neatly affixed to the black ebony rim of the steering wheel. He smiled
ironically. It was necessary, quite necessary that the police should
have no doubt as to who had been in Doyle's house with Connie Myers that
night, or to whom they had so considerately loaned their automobile!
He was running now--through lanes, dodging down side streets, taking
every short cut he knew. Had he beaten the police to Mike Hagan's room?
It would be easy then. If they were ahead of him, then, by some means or
other, he must still get that paper first.
He was at the tenement now--shuffling leisurely up the steps.
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