"The Chronos Club."
One of the men made to get in and staggered back with a queer throaty gasp: "Good God, what's this!"
Greg hastily slipped out of his seat. "What's the matter?"
"A dead body!" the man gasped, and instinctively looked around for a policeman.
On the floor of the cab before them lay a bulky body queerly huddled on top of an old valise. When the door had been opened the feet pushed out uncompromisingly. The light of a street lamp fell full on the upturned, yellow, dreadfully quiet face.
Greg's mind after an instant's stand of horror worked like lightning. He shut the door pushing the feet in with it.
"Oh, he's only soused," he said carelessly. "I didn't know his friend had left him behind. I'll have to take him to the station house now."
Springing back into the driver's seat he opened her up wide. The two men looked after him with an uncertain air. The taxi leaped ahead. He turned the next corner on two wheels, and the next and the next after that. His blood was pounding in his ears. Finally in the middle of a quiet block he ventured to draw up and listen. No sound of a raised alarm reached him.