The district attorney felt a sudden twinge of loneliness. And when an automobile sign told him he was “10 miles from Columbus Circle,” he felt that from the New York he knew he was much farther. Two miles up the road his car overhauled a bicycle policeman, and Wharton halted him.
“Is there a road-house called Kessler’s beyond here?” he asked.
“On the left, farther up,” the officer told him, and added: “You can’t miss it Mr. Wharton; there’s no other house near it.”
“You know me,” said the D.A. “Then you’ll understand what I want you to do. I’ve agreed to go to that house alone. If they see you pass they may think I’m not playing fair. So stop here.”
The man nodded and dismounted.
“But,” added the district attorney, as the car started forward again, “If you hear shots, I don’t care how fast you come.”
The officer grinned.
“Better let me trail along now,” he called; “that’s a tough joint.”
But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the man still stood where they had parted.
Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as it passed, the driver lifted his hand from the wheel, and with his thumb motioned behind him.