Seven o’clock came and Frank did not put in an appearance. Seven-fifteen, and still no sign of him. Jack began to grow uneasy. Seven-thirty, and he had not returned.
“Pshaw! I guess he can take care of himself,” muttered Jack.
He donned his heavy cloak, picked up his hat and descended to the street. There, in the shadow of the house, he took his stand. A few moments later, Count Blowinski appeared in the doorway. A moment later the count’s large automobile drew up. The Russian descended the steps and entered the car.
As the machine moved off, Jack rushed from his hiding place, and by a sprint, caught hold of the rear of the car and pulled himself up behind. The machine continued on its way for perhaps fifteen minutes. Jack kept careful note of the direction, that he might find his way back safely.
Then the driver turned the car into a dark and narrow street and reduced his speed. Jack dropped lightly to the ground and dashed to the shelter of the dingy buildings that lined the walks. Muffled in his huge coat, he knew he ran little risk of detection.
A short distance up the narrow street the car stopped and Count Blowinski alighted. Immediately the auto turned and sped in the direction from which it had come.
Jack slouched toward the count.
The latter took one look at the approaching figure, and then, apparently satisfied, turned on his heel and walked rapidly up the street. Jack followed a considerable distance behind but still close enough to make sure he would not lose sight of the count.
Before a single story building, even more dingy looking than the rest, the count paused. One swift glance he gave about him, and not perceiving Jack some distance behind—as the lad had slunk close to the shelter of the house, he disappeared down a flight of stairs into the basement.
Jack moved forward more rapidly now.