“I suppose I could find out by telephoning to the garage,” he suggested.
“Yes, sir; but they wouldn’t know where he went. Wouldn’t do much good, unless you want to set the cops after him.”
“No,” said Mr. Donalds. “I’ll handle this myself. You’re fairly certain, then, that this Wickey will return here before going to his garage?”
“Expect to see him any minute now, sir.”
“Very well, then—I’ll wait here. I’ll engage your cab. I’ll pay you for your time until this Wickey comes,” said Mr. Donalds.
He climbed into the cab, but he was very restless in there.
“Be sure Wickey doesn’t pass by!” he called out of the window.
“Oh, he’d gimme a hail,” the driver assured him. “Don’t you worry, sir.”
But time was flying. At least, time was undoubtedly flying for the nefarious red-haired woman, but for Mr. Donalds it passed with leaden foot. The chauffeur was smoking what Mr. Donalds was wont to call a “filthy cigarette,” and though he had often declared that such things were not tobacco at all, still the aroma of this one put him painfully in mind of cigars. He had none with him. He grew more and more restless.
At last another cab came up, and its driver descended.