"Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
Washington Square North?"
"Oughtn't I to?" replied Thomas. "I lived there. Wish I did yet."
The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.
"Step in please," he said. "You have been expected."
Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.
"Maybe the guy hasn't got any change," was his diagnosis. "Lots of these
swell rounders don't lug about any ready money. Guess he'll dump me out
when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow,
it's a cinch that I've got that open-air bed convention beat to a
finish."
Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself,
to marvel at the surprises of life. "Wonderful! amazing! strange!" he
repeated to himself constantly.
When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
houses.
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