“Foot of Twenty-third Street, East,” he said to the driver. “And make good time.”
They spoke hardly a word all the way uptown; when the foot of Twenty-third Street was reached Kenyon noticed another car.
“That must be Webster,” he exclaimed. Sure enough, in the tonneau he espied Garry, enveloped in a huge overcoat and holding a cigar between his teeth.
“Hello, Kenyon,” cried that young gentleman, removing the cigar and waving his hand. “Here I am, on deck and waiting!”
“I knew you would be!” Kenyon’s car drew up beside the other. “Mr. Webster—Miss Gilbert.”
The girl inclined her head, but Webster, so great was his astonishment, blundered woefully.
“Great Cæsar!” was his mental exclamation. “Kenyon’s coming along, sure enough. And she is a beauty. I never saw such eyes and such a great lot of dark hair.”
“Wait here for us,” said Kenyon to his driver. Then to Webster he added: “And you’d better have your fellow wait, also; we may need him.”
He helped Dallas out, and the three of them made their way to a pier close by. Webster never asked a question; he knew that something of great importance was expected to occur, or Kenyon would never have summoned him. And then the presence of Dallas Gilbert lent an air of suspense to the thing which he would not have broken for the world.
From a dusky spot along the pier a man arose and approached them.