“So I see. A chauffeur?”
“I picked this man up cheap. With a driver we’ll both be able to sleep.”
“I can use some,” said Flash.
The car drew up at the curb. Doyle introduced the chauffeur as Clarence Purcell. He was a sharp-faced individual of forty with dark eyes and an unpleasant habit of sniffing his nose at frequent intervals.
“How long will it take to reach Clinton?” Flash asked him.
“Hard to tell,” the man answered. “There’s a bridge out East of here. We’ll have to take a detour which will slow us down.”
“We’ll arrive there by seven o’clock?”
“Oh, sure. Easy! You fellows roll up on the back seat and leave the driving to me. I’ll get you there.”
The car rode smoothly and Clarence Purcell was a skilful driver. As soon as they were well out of the city, Doyle rearranged the cameras to make more foot room. He stretched out comfortably, pillowing his head on his overcoat.
“I’m catching forty winks,” he said. “Better do the same. We’ll have a tough day tomorrow.”