“To New York,” said Van Vorst.
The driver shrieked at his companion.
“Then, he's doubled back,” he cried. “He's gone to New Haven.” He stooped and threw in the clutch. The car lurched forward.
A cold terror swept young Van Vorst.
“What do you want with him?” he called “Who are you?”
Over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. Above the roar of the car the words of the driver were flung back. “We're Secret Service from Washington,” he shouted. “He's from their embassy. He's a German spy!”
Leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a curtain of white, whirling dust.
Chapter 9. THE CARD-SHARP
I had looked forward to spending Christmas with some people in Suffolk, and every one in London assured me that at their house there would be the kind of a Christmas house party you hear about but see only in the illustrated Christmas numbers. They promised mistletoe, snapdragon, and Sir Roger de Coverley. On Christmas morning we would walk to church, after luncheon we would shoot, after dinner we would eat plum pudding floating in blazing brandy, dance with the servants, and listen to the waits singing “God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.”