as a plain-clothes officer who had been working with Seifert.
"You better get in," suggested Neski, himself slipping into the driver's seat of his car, which was of touring model with top and curtains. "Baretta and Frankie Zenn 've made themselves scarce. They'll not be back."
"Wait," bid Calvin; but the delay was short, for Oliver and the Royle girl had heard the motor.
"Who's he?" Oliver questioned Mr. Clarke cautiously.
"I know him," Calvin replied, and Oliver followed the Royle girl to the rear seat. Calvin got in beside Neski, who backed and swung onto the road headed, not east, but west.
"This is the best way," he explained, crowding the motor.
"Why?" asked Oliver.
"Oh, it's the way I take," replied Neski. "It'll be quicker to-night."
"It won't be," Oliver objected. "I got to get to a phone right away. I got to call my paper."
Neski shoved out the curtain beside him and peered back along the road; thereupon he increased the speed of the car for several hundred yards until, suddenly, he put on the brakes and drew up at a lonely dwelling, where a dim night-light flickered.
"Pound these birds out of bed," Neski invited. "They'll have a phone." And he reached over the seat, flinging open the rear door for the reporter.
"Wait for me a minute?" Oliver asked, stepping down.
"It'll be no minute. You can buy a ride in for five spots or flag a bootlegger," Neski dismissed him, unceremoniously, and started the car. "Shut that door, please," he requested the passenger remaining in back.
Joan Daisy felt the palpable approach of danger. "We oughtn't to leave him, ought we?" she protested.
