“How did you know my name?” asked Winthrop.
“The card you gave the police officer.”
“I see,” said Winthrop. They were silent while the car swept swiftly west, and Mr. Schwab kept thinking that for a young man who was afraid of the traffic, Winthrop was dodging the motor cars, beer vans, and iron pillars, with a dexterity that was criminally reckless.
At that hour Riverside Drive was empty, and after a gasp of relief, Mr. Schwab resumed the attack.
“Now, then,” he said sharply, “don’t go any further. What is this you want to talk about?”
“How much will The Journal give you for this story of yours?” asked Winthrop.
Mr. Schwab smiled mysteriously.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because,” said Winthrop, “I think I could offer you something better.”
“You mean,” said the police-court lawyer cautiously, “you will make it worth my while not to tell the truth about what I saw?”