The password this time was “Prohibition,” and the clew ran:
“Just two blocks from paradise and only one from hell,
Stranger things than truth are found in the bottom of a well.”
The Smith boys had already gone on, but we were now at last on equal terms with the others, and as the sleep and the cold night air had by now fully restored Aggie, Tish called a consultation.
“So far,” she said, “the Smiths have had the advantage of superior speed. But it is my opinion that this advantage is an unfair one, and that I have a right to nullify it if opportunity arises.”
“We’ll have to catch them first,” I observed.
“We shall catch them,” she said firmly, and once more studied the clew.
“Paradise,” she said, “should be the Eden Inn. To save time we will circumnavigate it at a distance of two blocks.”
This we did, learning later that Hell’s Kitchen was the name locally given to the negro quarter, and once more Tish’s masterly deciphering of the clew served us well. Before the other cars had much more than started, we espied the Smiths’ stripped flivver outside the Gilbert place, and to lose no time drove through the hedge and onto the lawn. Here, as is well known, the Gilberts have an old well, long disused, or so supposed. And here we found the Gilberts’ gardener standing and the Smith boys drawing up the well bucket.
“Give the word and get the envelope,” Tish whispered to me, and disappeared into the darkness.