"Cut across here to Commonwealth Avenue," Miss Melrose suggested. She remembered something and her bright blue eyes sparkled beneath the disfiguring mask. "I know a delightful old-fashioned inn out this way. It would be an ideal place to stop for supper. I was there once five years ago when I was in Boston."
"How far?" asked Reid.
"Fifteen or twenty miles," was the reply.
"Right," said Curtis. "Here we go."
Soon after they were skimming along Commonwealth Avenue, which at that time of day is practically given over to automobilists, past the Vendome, the Somerset and on over the flat, smooth road. It was perfectly light now, because the electric lights were about them; but there was no moon above, and once in the country it would be dark going.
Curtis was intent on his machine; Reid was thoughtful for a time, but after awhile leaned over and talked to Miss Melrose.
"I heard something to-day that might interest you," he remarked.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Don MacLean is in Boston."
"I heard that," she replied, casually.