“Somewhere between Loon Lake and Stoughton, on the Boston Pike.”
Again Matt was astounded.
“That’s pretty close to Boston, isn’t it?” he inquired.
“It’s a good deal closer to Boston than it is to New York.”
“When do you think we’ll get to—to where we’re going?”
“Some time to-night,” was the careless response.
“You don’t seem to realize,” said Matt, just the barest riffle of temper showing itself, “that I hadn’t any intention of taking such a long ride as this when I left the Flatiron Building.”
“Your friend wants you,” said the girl. “If that’s not enough to keep you on the long ride, then you can get out at Mamaroneck—we’ve already passed New Rochelle—and take the train back to New York.”
The girl’s indifferent manner puzzled him. She must have seen the touring car pass the taxicab, and she must have known that Joe McGlory was in the car. What this had to do with her present attitude, if anything, Matt could not guess. For all that, he felt positive she did not think he had seen the touring car dash along the road with McGlory.
“You told me McGlory had left New York ahead of us,” said he.