than the one into which this man of the Iron Age had run my friends of the Flamingo Feather when he followed them on to the Century. He had them where and when he wanted them; they simply couldn't get away. Of course, I didn't know whether or not he was alone, in the sense whether he had other operatives with him; that made no difference; he had the clothing merchants and the golfers; the married pair, and mother and son; the assorted six with the bond salesmen,—if you cared to count them; he had a hundred with him whenever he wanted them. George and Doris, with Felice, had their wits and themselves; and, since there could be no possible doubt of the outcome of the stalking I was seeing, I couldn't help wanting them to give "Iron Age" a run before he got them.
There's something about authority—especially when it's so satisfied and certain and when it has all the odds on its side—which does that to one. Doris Wellington was not in my sight now; but when I thought of her as she was at the dance and as I had seen her walking down Michigan Avenue, I simply couldn't find any impulse to help old "Iron Age" over there snap his handcuffs upon her
