“Stop at the Thermon Hotel,” said Clarendon, through the speaking tube.
The limousine drew up before the hotel. Craig stared in surprise as he saw Clarendon helping Thaddeus Westcott from the car. The chauffeur clambered from the front seat to give aid.
“He’s all right,” assured Clarendon. “Wait here. I’ll take care of him.”
The two men went into the hotel. Clarendon reappeared about ten minutes later.
“Mr. Westcott is feeling better,” he said to the chauffeur. “He had a slight attack of indigestion. The doctor is with him now. He is going to stay here overnight.
“He wants you to take the car back to Long Island. Bring his bags and tickets in before eight thirty in the morning.”
“Very well, sir.”
A taxicab had pulled up in front of the limousine. Craig angled the big car backward and forward and swung into the street.
He glanced behind him as he departed. He could see no sign of George Clarendon. The man had disappeared.
THE limousine traveled over the Queensboro Bridge and whirled along a broad highway. The car reached a road that turned off from the highway.