wet pavement. Then we took a turn, with two wheels up on the sidewalk, and doubled for what must have been Central Park. A policeman in a shiny waterproof shouted at us as we swept down across the Plaza, I know; but we never stopped.
"Keep it up," I could hear Wendy Washburn call out as we turned westward again.
"I can't keep it up!" the driver called back. "My gas is running low!"
"Then slow down enough at Symond's to let us drop off," my Hero-Man called back, after a moment's thought, "but don't stop!"
He was staring back, apparently to make sure the lights of the car behind us hadn't yet turned the corner, when we shuddered down to almost a standstill. We were, I think, somewhere in the west Fifties, between Sixth and Seventh Avenue. The man beside me was on his feet, with the door open, before I woke up to what he intended doing.
"Quick," he called, as he caught me by the arm.
I stumbled out after him. In his right hand, I noticed he still carried the black club-bag. With his left hand he swung me across the wet sidewalk and pushed me in through a door.
I stood blinking about what must have been a public garage, with rows of cars, and black iron pil-
