They rumbled along.
Block after block was left behind.
It is a long distance from Fourteenth Street up to the point where they were bound, and when half an hour had gone by they had not yet reached their destination.
Indeed, it was not far from eight o’clock when the driver pulled up at the corner.
The old gentleman got out slowly.
He bade his traveling companion good night and turning walked away, his cane beating a lively tattoo upon the stone pavement.
Darrell was satisfied with his investment thus far—he had been carried up town, had seen the artist well upon his way, and knew both driver and vehicle by sight.
There could not very well be any mistake after this—he believed things were well laid out, and that all they needed was a chance to execute their plan.
He again changed his looks, so that in case the artist saw him he would not realize that he had met him before.
With the facilities at his command it was not a difficult thing for him to do this, and by means of a few deft turns he completely altered his character, and might defy recognition, even were keener eyes concerned than those of Paul Prescott, the artist.