Her companion was a bearded man in an ill-fitting black suit with a frock coat, and with a gray slouch hat on his head. The instant Chick saw him and his garments, he was sure of the man’s identity, despite his facial disguise.
“Margate himself!” flashed up in his mind. “Andy Margate, as sure as I’m a foot high.”
This was confirmed almost immediately by the intercourse that began as soon as the woman, who was driving the runabout, brought it to a stop at one side of the road.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “You’re here ahead of us, Tony.”
“Sure I’m here,” said the man in baggy brown. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes.”
“Well, what have you learned, Selig?” Margate demanded, with manifest interest. “You keep quiet, Nance, and let me do the talking.”
“Tony Selig,” thought Chick; then, he rightly inferred: “By their resemblance, too, this woman should be his sister. Nance Selig, eh?”
The man in the road drew nearer the car, replying, with a laugh:
“Oh, I have not been idle, Andy, you can bet on that. You’re in right in one way, but wrong in another.”
“Wrong, eh?” queried Margate, with a snarl. “Tell me the worst first. Wrong in what way?”