Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to higher denominations.
But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman, and muttered to himself inscrutable words.
“Strange—strange!” said he. “Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?”
Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful Thomas.
“Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you, if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in Washington Square North?”
“Oughtn’t I to?” replied Thomas. “I lived there. Wish I did yet.”
The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
“Step in please,” he said. “You have been expected.”
Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
“Maybe the guy hasn’t got any change,” was his diagnosis. “Lots of these swell rounders don’t lug about any ready money. Guess he’ll dump me out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow, it’s a cinch that I’ve got that open-air bed convention beat to a finish.”