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I have said he did not go far to reach sanctuary. To be exact he did not go the length of the block between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth. He went only as far as the Clarenden, newest and smartest, and, for the time being, most popular of typical Broadway cafes, standing three buildings north of the clothing shop, or a total distance from it, let us say, of ninety feet. It was while he traversed those ninety feet that Trencher summed up the contingencies that hedged him in and reached his conclusion.

In front of the Clarenden against the curbing stood a short line of waiting motor vehicles. With one exception they were taxicabs. At the lower end of the queue, though, was a vast gaudy limousine, a bright blue in body colour, with heavy trimmings of brass–and it was empty. The chauffeur, muffled in furs, sat in his place under the overhang of the peaked roof, with the glass slide at his right hand lowered and his head poked out as he peered up Broadway; but the car itself, Trencher saw, contained no occupant.

Trencher, drawing up alongside the limousine, was searching vainly for a monogram, a crest or a name on its varnished flank while he spoke.

“Driver,” he said sharply, “whose car is this?”

“Mr. O’Gavin’s,” the chauffeur answered without turning to look at the person asking the question.

Trencher played a blind lead and yet not such a very blind lead either. Big as New York was there was likely to be but one O’Gavin in it who would have a car such as this one anchored in front of the Clarenden–and that would be the noted bookmaker. Trencher played his card.

“Jerome O’Gavin’s, eh?” he inquired casually as though stating a foregone conclusion.

“Yes, sir; it’s his car.” And now the driver twisted his body and half-faced Trencher. “Say, boss, what’s all the row about yonder?”

“Crowd chasing a pickpocket, I imagine,” said Trencher indifferently. Then putting a touch of impatience in his voice: “Where is O’Gavin–inside?”

“Yes, sir! Said he’d be ready to go uptown at eleven. Must be near that now.”

“Pretty near it. I was to meet him here at eleven myself and I thought I recognised his car.”

“You’ll find him in the grill, I guess, sir,” said the driver, putting into the remark the tone of deference due to someone who was a friend of his employer’s. “I understood him to say he had an appointment with some gentleman there. Was it you?”

“No, but I know who the gentleman is,” said Trencher. “The other man’s not such a very good friend of mine–that’s why I’d rather wait outside for Jerome than to go in there.” He made a feint at looking at his watch. “Hum, ten minutes more. Tell you what I think I’ll do, driver: I think I’ll just hop inside the car until O’Gavin comes out–better than loafing on the sidewalk, eh?”

“Just as you say. Make yourself comfortable, sir. Shall I switch on the lights?”

“No, never mind the lights, thank you.” Trencher was already taking shelter within the limousine, making himself small on the wide back seat and hauling a thick rug up over his lap. Under the rug one knee was bent upward and the fingers of one hand were swiftly undoing the buttons of one fawn-coloured spat. If the chauffeur had chanced to glance back he would have seen nothing unusual going on. The chauffeur, though, never glanced back. He was staring dead ahead again.

“Say, boss, they’ve caught the pickpocket–if that’s what he was,” he cried out excitedly. “They’re bringing him back.”

“Glad they nailed him,” answered Trencher through the glass that was between them. He had one spat off and was now unfastening its mate.

“It looks like a nigger,” added the chauffeur, supplying a fresh bulletin as the captive was dragged nearer. “It is a nigger! Had his nerve with him, trying to pull off a trick in this part of town.”