“That is true,” interposed Fellows, “but the man whose instructions I follow is also in New York. He will see that you are free from harm.
“You are willing to quit the racket. You have told all you know. In return, you will be sent to safety.”
The chubby-faced man drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Horace Prescott.
“This envelope contains a ticket to New York,” he said, “with reservations on the eleven-thirty train, Michigan Central. You leave tonight.
“In New York, register, under my name — Claude H. Fellows — at the Metrolite Hotel. You will receive immediate instructions from my patron.”
“Are you going with me?”
“No. I have a ticket for Omaha, Nebraska. I have certain business there.
“Remember, Prescott, that I am an insurance broker. I travel considerably. I brought my bag with me tonight. You will accompany me as though you were simply going to the station. But our routes will be in opposite directions.
“Those who follow me will be on a false trail. Yet after you have dropped off at the Michigan Central station, there will be no clew other than myself.”
A look of satisfaction appeared upon Horace Prescott’s face. He had trusted this man because he was in an uncomfortable situation. He believed everything that Fellows had told him.