Bertha had too much speed to make the left turn without bringing the car to a complete stop against the kerb, backing it part way around, and then charging ahead.
The next intersection offered no more encouraging results than had the first; but the car could conceivably have made another left-hand turn. That would have brought it back to the boulevard.
Bertha swore under her breath.
It was an old trick, and a clever trick when you knew you were being followed, just to blunder along at a slow and even pace, give careful full-arm signals, trap the other car into a crowded intersection, and then loop the loop.
Back on the boulevard, driving as though she were a police official headed home for lunch five minutes later than usual, Bertha passed everything on the highway, only to realize, with that sickening feeling of futility that comes to a fisherman when the line suddenly goes dead, that her quarry had escaped her.
Just by way of checking up, Bertha went back to the place where she had first lost the automobile.
It was the seven-hundred block on North Harkington Avenue, a block of bungalows enjoying the luxury of spacious driveways leading to private garages.
Bertha carefully checked all of the driveways. They were deserted. The garage doors were all closed.
Bertha groped for a cigarette, accepted the situation with profane philosophy, and turned her automobile back toward the business district.