Perhaps ten minutes passed. Three times the car had swerved sharply,
making a corner turn. Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat, and,
protected from observation from behind by the back of the car itself,
crawled out and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau.
"Don't look around, Benson," he said calmly. "Are we followed?"
"Yes, sir." Benson answered. "At least, there's always been a car behind
us, though not the same one. They're pretty clever. There must be three
or four, each following the other. Every time I turn a corner it's a
different car that turns it behind me."
"How far behind?" Jimmie Dale asked.
"Half a block."
"Slow down a little," instructed Jimmie Dale; "and don't turn another
corner until they've had a chance to accommodate themselves to your new
speed. You are going too fast for me to jump, and I don't want them to
notice any change in speed, except what is made in plain sight. Yes;
that's better. Where are we, Benson?"
"That's Amsterdam Avenue ahead," replied Benson.
"All right," said Jimmie Dale quietly. "Turn into it. The more people
the better. Tell me just as you are about to turn."
"Yes, sir," said Benson; then, almost on the instant, "All ready, sir!"
Jimmie Dale's hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door ajar,
the car swerved, took the corner--and Jimmie Dale stepped out on the
running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though chatting
with Benson, and then with an airy "good-night" dropped nonchalantly
to the ground, and the next instant had mingled with the throng of
pedestrians on the sidewalk.
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