of his booth, he was giving
a most unsuspicious appearance of a busy man. And while he talked, his
wonder grew. What was about to happen? What was this Benvenuto Cellini
business all about?

He had been talking for fifteen minutes or more when the glass door of
the booth was opened from without and a man's voice remarked:

"When you are through, sir, we will be going."

The voice was the same he had heard over the wire. Larry hung up and
followed the man out the side door, noting only that he had a lean,
respectful face. At the curb stood a limousine, the door of which was
opened by the man for Larry. Larry stepped in.

"Are you followed, sir?" inquired the man.

"I don't know."

"We'd better make certain. If you are, we'll lose them, sir. We'll stop
somewhere and change our license plates again."

Instead of getting into the unlighted body with him, as Larry had
expected, the man closed the door, mounted to the seat beside the
chauffeur, and the car shot west and turned up Riverside Drive.

One may break the speed laws in New York if one has the speed, and if
one has the ability to get away with it. This car had both. Never before
had Larry driven so rapidly within New York City limits; he knew
this, that any trailing taxicab would be lost behind. At
Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Fifth Street the car swung into Van Cortland Park,
and switched off all lights. Two minutes later they halted in a dark
stretch of one of the by-roads of the Park.

"We'll be stopping only a minute, sir, to put on our right number
plates," the man opened the door to explain.

Within the minute they were away again, now proceeding more
leisurely, in the easy manner of a private car going about its private
business--though the interior of the car was discreetly dark and
Larry huddled discreetly into a corner. Thus they drove over the Grand
Boulevards and recrossed the Harlem River and presently drew up in front
of a great apartment house in Park Avenue.

The man opened the door. "Walk right in, sir, as though you belong here.
The doorman and the elevatorman are prepared."

They might be prepared, but Larry certainly was not; and he shot up the
elevator to the top floor with mounting bewilderment. The man unlocked
the door of an apartment, ushered Larry in, took his wet hat, then
ushered the dazed Larry through the corner of a dim-lit drawing-room and
through another door.

"You are to wait here, sir," said the man, and quietly withdrew.