"Here is my idea," Mason said. "He evidently intends to get a warrant for you, but it may not be possible till to-morrow. We must get away from here to-night—at once. There is no time to lose. We are going to Newark."
"The circus?" Charles said, inquiringly.
"Yes, but we must not be followed by that fellow, or any one else. Now I'll pack a few things, and you do the same. Make a small parcel. Don't bother with your bag. Thank God, our rent is paid. We are not going by train. That would be risky. We are going to walk most of the way through the country. It will be safer than in the trains that may be watched by the police. Hurry now!"
Mason was soon ready. "Listen," he said, impressively. "I'm going outside now. You bring both parcels with you. I'll stroll along the street and make sure that the coast is clear. When you come out, if you see me with a newspaper in my hand it will mean that you are to follow me, and you do it. If I have no paper you are to go back and wait here till I come."
Ten minutes later Charles descended the stairs. He deemed it lucky that he met no one. A clock below was striking ten. Outside he looked up and down the street. Presently he saw Mason on the first corner. He was in front of a laundry, a newspaper in hand. He saw that Mason had seen him, for he turned suddenly and began to walk westward. Charles followed for several blocks. Presently Mason stopped in a spot where there was little light, and waited for him to come up.
"Coast is clear, I think," Mason softly chuckled. "That skunk thinks his game is safe till to-morrow, for he doesn't dream we are on to him."
"Where are we going now?" Charles asked, vastly relieved by his friend's confident tone, and the sudden sense of the freer life into which they were going like two children of Fate.
"We must cross the Hudson somewhere," Mason answered. "We could take the ferry at One Hundred and Thirtieth Street. It is less apt to be watched than the others, but still I want to avoid even that chance of detection. There are some small boat-houses near One Hundred and Eighty-first Street. I've hung about them a good deal. If we can get there unnoticed we can be taken across in a row-boat or small launch—easy enough to pretend to be camping out over there. Hundreds are doing it this summer. We could take a car up, Subway or surface, but I think we ought to make for the river-front and do it afoot. It is a long walk, but it is safe."
"It suits me," Charles agreed, and side by side they continued in their westward course.
Reaching Broadway, they walked northward till they came to Fiftieth Street; then they turned to the river-front. It was a fine night. The Albany excursion-boats, brilliantly lighted, were passing. Hundreds of smaller craft, yachts, sailboats, launches, and canoes, dotted the surface of the broad stream, and from some of them came strains of band music, the strident notes of a clarinet, merry voices singing to the accompaniment of stringed instruments.