“Yes. I’m something more than curious. I want to know where they are going.”
“After a breath of fresh air, most likely, and one cannot blame them,” said Chick. “It’s like a melting pot indoors.”
“No hotter than that melting pot from which we saved the Waldmere plate a few months ago,” Nick replied, as they picked their way out through the throng and descended the front steps.
“That’s right, too.”
“This is an ice box, Chick, compared with that room in which we rounded up Stuart Floyd and his gang when engaged in that infernal work. It’s a pity that that rascal gave the prison-hospital guardians the slip and is again at large. The community would be more safe if your bullet had killed him, instead of only wounding him. He was a bad egg and is likely to break out again.”
“Quite likely,” Chick admitted. “But his escape was no fault of ours.”
“That’s very true, but it’s no less deplorable.”
“Are the Waldmeres here to-night?”
“I don’t know. I imagine they are, however, for they are friends of the Carringtons, and travel with the swell set. Ah, there they go,” Nick abruptly digressed, upon turning a front corner of the great house.
It brought a side driveway, the porte-cochère, and the side door into view, also the grounds south of the house and the side and rear streets, then brightly lighted and in which numerous motor cars and carriages were waiting.