They had passed Fifth Avenue, and were nearing Broadway.
“About the same distance behind,” Jimmie Dale answered.
“That looks bad!” the chauffeur gritted between his teeth. “We'll have to make sure. I'll run down Lower Broadway.”
“If you think we're followed,” suggested Jimmie Dale quietly, “why not run uptown and give them the slip somewhere where the traffic is thick? Lower Broadway at this time of night is as empty and deserted as a country road.”
The chauffeur's sudden laugh was mirthless.
“My God, you don't know what you are talking about!” he burst out. “If they're following, all hell couldn't throw them off the track. And I've got to know, I've got to be SURE before I dare make a move to-night. I couldn't tell up in the crowded districts if I was followed, could I? They won't come out into the open until their hands are forced.”
The car swerved sharply, rounded the corner, and, speeding up faster and faster, began to tear down Lower Broadway.
“Watch! WATCH!” cried the chauffeur.
There was no word between them for a moment; then Jimmie Dale spoke crisply:
“It's turned the corner! It's coming this way!”