The chauffeur lighted a match and applied it to a cigarette. The car sped along until it approached another road bordered by thick woods.
Far ahead, Craig saw a figure in the glare of the headlights. A man was standing with outstretched arms. He appeared to be wearing a uniform.
Craig grinned. This part of Long Island was used as a landing place for cargoes from ships. Coast guards, prohibition agents, and local police were constantly on the lookout for bootleggers in large, powerful automobiles.
Craig had been stopped before, but never on this road. He applied the brakes and the big car coasted to a halt.
The waiting man stepped up to the car. His badge glimmered, but his face was lost in darkness. He spoke gruffly as he accosted the chauffeur.
“What you got there?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” replied Craig. “This car belongs to Mr. Westcott, who lives farther up the road.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll look and see.”
Two forms emerged from the side of the road. The chauffeur could make out the dim shape of an automobile drawn up in a small clearing that extended to one side.
The man with the badge drew an automatic from his coat and held it loosely as he eyed the chauffeur. Craig heard the door of the limousine open behind him.