No doubt Paul Prescott was thrilled with the great victory he had won, and believed nothing could keep him from accomplishing the end toward which he had planned so long, little suspecting the danger hovering near.
Harlem was gained, that new city that has of late years sprung up beside the river, a part of New York, and yet really distinct from it.
Darrell had once more become the cool man as of yore, ready to grapple with this burning question, and throttle the hydra headed monster that had crossed the track of Joe Leslie’s wife.
He smiled to think what poor Joe must be doing just then—finding Lillian really gone and the detective not on hand. Had he given the whole thing away? Would all his guests know that his wife had deserted him for another?
This was a possibility that made Eric grit his teeth and feel angry at the peculiar chance that had cheated him of his prey. If things had only worked as they should, the wheels would have gone along nicely. However, Eric had learned long ago the folly of crying over spilt milk, and when a disaster occurred he generally set about retrieving his fortunes as well as possible.
They were nearing the Harlem.
Would the vehicle cross the bridge and proceed up into the country beyond?
Pursuit—it was folly to think of any one being able to pursue them, at least for some time to come, and a trail grows cold with waiting. No wonder then the artist felt jolly.
He believed his plan had been a complete success, and that the prize was his own.