“Get in!” he cried sharply. “Be quick!”
Nick sprang into the car and sank upon the seat. The door banged behind him.
“Let her go, Jimmy!” shouted his companion.
The car had not stopped, in fact, and it now sped on rapidly through the side street.
Nick’s companion sprang up and gazed intently from the back window until more than a hundred yards had been covered. Any pursuing car or motor cycle would have been plainly visible to him. There was none, however, and the limousine turned again and sped toward Florida Avenue.
The man sat down and leaned from the open window on his side of the car, that on which Nick sat being closed.
“You’re well away, Jimmy,” he called to the driver. “There’s nothing doing. Let her go lively.”
Nick had been quick to see that this man was not masked, as when Garland had accompanied him. No sooner had he a good look at his dark, thin-featured face, more[{32}]over, than Nick instantly recognized him. He had arrested him in New York more than a year before.
“Bartholomew Lombard, better known as Batty Lombard,” he said to himself. “The rat I took in for lifting a diamond in Tiffany’s. I’m certainly in right for the present, at least. I wonder what other jailbird is driving the machine”
Nick could see only the back of his head and broad shoulders, his woolen cap and thick overcoat, with the collar turned up to his ears.