"Coming up in the world, my boy," he chuckled, as he strolled toward the door. "First Mrs. Winslow Courtney, now Fahnstock. Next thing you know you'll be chumming with his excellency at Wash——"
"Your car is here, Mr. Lawrence."
It was the carriage man who spoke, and with a start Barry realized that he must have spent more time than he supposed dawdling about the lobby.
Hurriedly slipping into his coat, which he had been carrying on his arm, he walked rapidly out across the sidewalk to where a handsome limousine stood by the curb.
"Mr. Jacob Hamersley's house on Fifth Avenue," he told the chauffeur.
"Yes, sir." The man saluted, without turning his head.
Lawrence leaped in, the porter slammed the door, and the car started off with a jerk.
The next instant Barry realized that he was not alone. A shadow in the farther corner of the wide seat had suddenly come to life.
But before the surprised Harvard man could so much as lift a finger, the cold barrel of an automatic revolver was pressed firmly against his temple, and a cool, steely voice said in his ear:
"Just sit tight, and don't let a yip out of you, my friend, if you want to keep your brains where they belong!"