“Have you anything for me?” he inquired casually.
It lay where it always lay, that ring, between the folds of that little white glove in his pocketbook. Jimmie Dale took it out now, and handed it silently to the chauffeur.
The other's face changed instantly—composure was gone, and a quick, strained look was in its place.
“I'm afraid I've been watched,” he said tersely. “Look behind you, will you, and tell me if you see anything?”
Jimmie Dale glanced backward through the little window in the hood.
“There's another taxi just turned in from Sixth Avenue,” he reported the next instant.
“Keep your eye on it!” instructed the chauffeur shortly.
The speed of the cab increased sensibly.
With a curious tightening of his lips, Jimmie Dale settled himself in his seat so that he could watch the cab behind. There was trouble coming, intuitively he sensed that; and, he reflected bitterly, he might have known! It was too marvellous, too wonderful ever to come to pass that this one hour, the thought of which had fired his blood and made him glad beyond any gladness life had ever held for him before, should bring its promised happiness.
“Where's the cab now?” the chauffeur flung back over his shoulder.