Ah! the Harlem at last.
Those curved lines of lights indicated the bridge that stretched across.
The horses’ feet fall upon the planking—their course then was over the river.
As for Eric, he was quite indifferent now whither they took him.
He had made up his mind to see this thing through and to save Lillian for his friend and it did not matter whether the climax came to pass in the city or country.
He meant it should be severe.
As Joe Leslie’s best friend he would teach this masher a lesson he would never forget if he survived it. The driver once or twice tried to strike up a conversation with him, but Eric ordered him to pay no attention to anything but his horses. Then a thought coming to him, he told the man that if the gentleman inside should notice his presence and demand to know who he was, that the driver should claim him as a friend and let it pass.
This the man said he would do—he had a horror of being concerned in a murder trial, and this was what the other threatened him with.
They crossed the bridge and continued on—houses were plenty, gas lamps dispelled the darkness at intervals, but at the same time there seemed to be something of the country about them—the great metropolis with its two millions of inhabitants, its bustle and electric lights lay behind them.
For a short time longer the night ride was continued, and then, to the satisfaction of the detective, it ended.