e negro
kept going. He could not get away from the spot--yet. And still it would
be the height of recklessness for him, dressed as he was, to linger
there. Temporarily he must bide where he was, and in this swarming,
bright-as-day place he must find a hiding place from which he could see
without being seen, spy without being spied upon or suspected for what
he was. Even as he calculated these obstacles he figured a possible way
out of the double-ended dilemma, or at any rate he figured his next step
toward safety from detection for the moment, and, with continued luck,
toward ultimate escape from a perilous spot where now no measure of
immunity could be either long-lived or dependable.

I have said he did not go far to reach sanctuary. To be exact he did not
go the length of the block between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth. He went
only as far as the Clarenden, newest and smartest, and, for the time
being, most popular of typical Broadway cafes, standing three buildings
north of the clothing shop, or a total distance from it, let us say, of
ninety feet. It was while he traversed those ninety feet that Trencher
summed up the contingencies that hedged him in and reached his
conclusion.

In front of the Clarenden against the curbing stood a short line of
waiting motor vehicles. With one exception they were taxicabs. At the
lower end of the queue, though, was a vast gaudy limousine, a bright
blue in body colour, with heavy trimmings of brass--and it was empty.
The chauffeur, muffled in furs, sat in his place under the overhang of
the peaked roof, with the glass slide at his right hand lowered and his
head poked out as he peered up Broadway; but the car itself, Trencher
saw, contained no occupant.

Trencher, drawing up alongside the limousine, was searching vainly for a
monogram, a crest or a name on its varnished flank while he spoke.

"Driver," he said sharply, "whose car is this?"

"Mr. O'Gavin's," the chauffeur answered without turning to look at the
person asking the question.

Trencher played a blind lead and yet not such a very blind lead either.
Big as New York was there was likely to be but one O'Gavin in it who
would have a car such as this one anchored in front of the
Clarenden--and that would be the noted bookmaker. Trencher played his
card.

"Jerome O'Gavin's, eh?" he inquired casually as though stating a
foregone conclusion.

"Yes, sir; it's his car." And now the driver twisted his body and
half-faced Tre