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ORDON walked across town to the garage, two blocks from the house, and found his big, gray underslung roadster awaiting him. Peter Waring had promised to go along, but at the club there was only a hurriedly scrawled note saying that Peter had been kidnapped by his sisters and forcibly conveyed up Westchester way for luncheon.
"Darn sisters anyway," wrote Peter, with a fine disregard for punctuation. "They're always hashing things up for a fellow aren't they? I'll see you at the club at seven."
So Gordon made the journey to Brooklyn alone, spent an hour or more at the basin in looking over the Siren, one hundred and eighty feet of speed and luxury, and in conferring with his sailing master, and then sped homeward. It had already sprinkled once, a five-minute downpour from a sunny April sky, and now, as he hummed across
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