“Well, that’s easily carried,” Bart laughed, with a covert gleam in his shifty eyes. “Sit down there, Donovan, for about ten minutes. We then shall have time to hit a fast express.”
Chick obeyed him with alacrity, taking a chair to which the rascal pointed.
There was nothing remarkable in the celerity with which these arrangements were completed. Chick knew that the two crooks did not dream of his having learned of the code telegram and its significance, and that they not only would suspect his identity, but also would see in his[{28}] application for work only a scheme to watch them and the Philadelphia store.
That he would walk with open eyes into such a net as the telegram indirectly suggested would seem utterly improbable, and Bart Bailey had immediately seized the supposed opportunity which the situation presented, feeling sure that he could trap Chick before he could learn that his identity and designs were suspected.
Half an hour later, therefore, found both seated in the smoking car of an express train bound for New York, whither Chick had really expected to have taken the crook in irons, instead of traveling as his supposed dupe.
This appeared to Chick, nevertheless, the surest and speediest way to discover the identity and doings of Bailey’s confederates, as well as to round up the entire gang, which might possibly be perverted by the immediate arrest of Bailey and Rudolph Meyers.
It was early afternoon when they arrived in New York, each having played his part consistently, resulting in no material change in the situation, save a change of base.
“We’ll take a taxi,” said Bailey, as they emerged from the station. “I’ve got the price.”
“That beats working one’s passage on a freight train,” Chick replied. “Whatever you say, Mr. Finley, goes.”
“This way, then.”