CHAPTER XVI—THE MAN IN THE STREET
Shortly after David had left the offices of Bernard, White & Bascomb, Wallie Bascomb came down the broad steps of the Saturn Club, and stepped briskly into his big slate-colored machine. “Jimmy,” he said, addressing the boyish-looking chauffeur, “what’s the speed limit between here and home?”
“Eight miles, sir,” said the other, as he reached forward for the starting-lever. He had answered that question frequently and thoroughly understood its import.
“I want to be back here in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lever shot forward. Slowly the car swung in a half-circle, was reversed and backed across the street. It lunged forward again as the clash and groan of the whirring gears gave place to the multiple throbbing of the sixty-horse-power cylinders.
“If you happen to get the cramp in your leg, Jimmy, just push on the accelerator pedal. That’ll help some.”
The chauffeur nodded, and the throbbing of the engine grew to a sonorous hum as the car shot down the street.
Bascomb leaned back in the comfortable tonneau and glanced at his watch. “Half-past five. Let me see—allow fifteen minutes to dress—ten back to the club—five to see old Tillinghast, confound the punctual old pirate—that’s six o’clock. Then ten back to the house (I hope Bessie won’t keep me waiting) and dinner at seven. Miss Ross is another stickler for ‘on time or bust.’ Well, it won’t be Jimmy’s fault if we don’t do either. Now, I wonder what’s up? Bessie has been thicker than bees with Miss Ross ever since Davy flew away. And now I’m haled from a nice comfy corner in the club to have dinner with that estimable Scotchwoman. Bet she’ll talk Davy from consommé to coffee.”
The car slowed down as they hurtled over a cross-street where a blue helmet and a warning hand appeared and vanished. Bascomb grinned as they swung to the curb a block farther down the street.