"And likewise to see that I do not take it into my head to—how do you say it? double-cross you?—pocket my plunder and neglect to return."
"Nothing like that." Morphew denied, with contempt for the suggestion. "Got too much confidence in your good sense."
"And yet you tell me you leave nothing to chance!"
"You're a great little kidder, all right." A sour smile commented on the concession. "As far as that goes, I don't expect you back here tonight."
"No?" Lanyard queried in surprise. "You meant to be a consistent gambler, then—trust me to return to New York with my loot alone?"
"Not exactly. You'll need a good car for your getaway, and a racing driver that knows all the back-roads—"
"Ah! not such a besotted gambler after all."
"I've marked a place on the map I gave you, a place just outside the grounds where you'll find a racing car waiting, when you're ready. Once you're in that, and the driver steps on the gas, nothing but an airplane stands a ghost of a show of overtaking you."
"Truly, you have thought of everything . . ."
"I'm that way."