“Very good,” said Harleston. “Does the driver know we’re behind him?”
“I’ve signalled, sir, and he’s answered.”
“Maintain the distance,” Harleston directed.
“Yes sir,” said the man.
Keeping about a hundred yards apart—the two cars sped down the hill and around Dupont Circle to Massachusetts Avenue, thence by it and Sixteenth Street to H. The one in the lead continued on toward Fourteenth. Harleston’s shot down Fifteenth, flashed over the tracks at Pennsylvania Avenue, swung into F Street, and drew in at the Chateau just as the other came around the Fourteenth Street corner, and rolled slowly up to the curb.
As Snodgrass was assisting Madeline Spencer to alight—and taking his time about it—Harleston glanced at his watch, sprang from his car, and hastened over.
“This is fortunate, Mrs. Spencer!” he exclaimed. “Just after you left the Rataplan the Secretary of State telephoned that he was summoned to the White House at four, and I should bring you an hour earlier. On the chance of overtaking you, I beat it after you. Now if Captain Snodgrass will permit you, we have just time to get over to the Department.”
“Will you excuse me, Captain Snodgrass?” she asked, with her compelling smile.
“A Secretary of State may not be denied,” Snodgrass replied. “In this instance in particular I would I were his Excellency.”
“Come and dine with me at eight,” giving him her hand.... “Now, Mr. Harleston, I am ready.”