As the leader of the kid-gloved crooks alighted from the car, Max Berne rattled past on his motor cycle.
He could not resist the temptation.
“Good night, Mr. Atherton,” he called out.
The society man wheeled about with thumping heart, but was too late to see more than the cyclist’s back.
“That will give him something to think about!” murmured the waiter. “I hope he hasn’t got a weak heart!”
“Great heavens!” ejaculated the startled Atherton. “Who was that, and how long has he been following us?”
But none of the others could say, and although they tried to shake off the uneasy feeling it gave them, they were not altogether successful.
CHAPTER VIII.
A DARING VENTURE.
About quarter of two the following afternoon, Alfred Knox Atherton descended in the elevator of the big apartment house, and was about to enter his handsome electric coupé when Max Berne stepped up to him and respectfully raised his hat.
“Hello, Max!” Atherton exclaimed good-naturedly. “What are you doing here? Brought me a message from the club?”