"That's right, too," Joe agreed. "I guess we can chance it."
"We'll put the top up to protect ourselves. And, anyway, it's dry in the locker."
"The rain will be the least of our worries in there," said Joe, with a grin. "Let's be going."
They went out to the garage and put up the top of the roadster, then got in. As they drove down High Street there was a low rumble of thunder and a splash of rain against the windshield.
"Storm's coming, right enough," Frank said. "Still, I have a hunch."
Ever since the previous night he had been possessed by a feeling that their next venture would be crowned with success. He could not explain it, but the feeling was there nevertheless.
They spied Con Riley, in oilskins against the approaching downpour, patrolling his beat, and drew up at the curb.
"New car, eh?" said Riley, surveying the roadster grimly. "I'll be runnin' you in for speeding some of these days, I'll be bound."
"Not in this boat," Frank assured him. "If we ever hit higher than thirty the engine would fly out."
"Thirty!" scoffed the constable. "That looks like a real racin' car. You mean ninety."