“She’s making for the door,” she whispered breathlessly. “I’ll follow her out. Can’t fail to catch her in the street. I’ll get her before she has gone a block. And then—”
Ah yes, and then—well, she’d decide what was to be done when the time came. She’d trust to inspiration.
She did not catch up with her in the first block, nor the second or third, either. The sidewalks were rivers of people; the cross streets filled with automobiles. Considering the fact that this was an obstacle race of an exceedingly unusual type, the Mystery Lady made wonderful progress. As for Lucile, she was not to be outdone; indeed, she gained a little here, and a little there. She dodged through an open space on the sidewalk and sprinted down a stretch of street where no autos were parked or traveling.
“I—I’ll get her in the next block,” she panted. “Suppose there’ll be a scene, but who cares? Here goes!”
A policeman’s whistle, releasing the flood of autos on the cross street, had just blown. With a leap she sprang away before them. Grazed by the wheel of a gray sedan, drawing an angry hoot from a huge touring car, she crossed the channel and was about to dash on when a hand seized her firmly by the arm and gave her such a turn as fairly set her whirling.
“Here you!” exclaimed a gruff voice. “What you tryin’ to do? Tryin’ to commit suicide? Autos has their right as well as them that walks. Give ’em their turn, can’t you?”
What was there to do? She could not tell this policeman of her cause for speed. She could but stand there panting until he chose to release her. And as she stood there, with time to think, a startling question came to her mind: “Cordie! What of Cordie? I promised to meet her at the northeast entrance! Closing time has now passed.”
For a moment her head whirled, but as the grip on her arm relaxed she murmured:
“Well, whatever is to happen has happened back there. I’ll get madamoiselle of mysteries yet!”
At that she crept slowly away until she was lost from sight of the officer; then again raced on at breakneck speed.