A little later the two were in a playhouse, enjoying a high-class farce, the laughs over which served to refresh Larry, who had worked hard in the past weeks.
“It’s early yet,” remarked the young reporter to his pretty companion, as they came out of the theater.
“Early!” she exclaimed. “What do you reporters call early, I’d like to know? It’s nearly eleven o’clock.”
“It’s not late until one,” spoke Larry with a laugh, “and that’s early, as the man in the story remarked.”
“But what do you mean?” asked Molly. “I’m afraid it’s too late for me.”
“Not at all,” Larry assured her. “At least it isn’t too late to go for a little taxi-ride; is it? I think it will do you good, after sitting in a hot theater. What do you say to a little spin before I take you home?”
“Oh, Larry, I’m afraid you’re getting me into luxurious habits,” she remarked, with a sigh, but it was not a very protesting sigh, and the young reporter at once summoned a taxi.
“Drive about anywhere,” he ordered the chauffeur, who grinned cheerfully in anticipation of a fat fee. Molly settled herself comfortably back among the cushions.
“Well,” she asked, “did going to the theater help you in finding any new clews to the stolen boy, Larry?”
“I’m afraid not,” he replied, with a laugh, as the cab swung along the brilliantly lighted streets. “I have tried to think out a new lead, but I can’t seem to. I’m up against a stone wall, and, speaking of bricks and mortar, what do you say to taking a little spin in Central Park? That will be a change from the streets.”