on the country roads and
headed toward New Rochelle, the big machine, speed limits thrown to the
winds, roared through the night--a gray streak of road jumping under the
powerful lamps; a village, a town, a cluster of lights flashing by him,
the steady purr of his sixty-horse-power engines; the gray thread of
open road again.

It was just eleven o'clock when Jimmie Dale, the road to himself for the
moment at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle, extinguished his lights,
and very carefully ran his car off the road, backing it in behind a
small clump of trees. He tossed the linen dust coat back into the car,
and set off toward where, a little distance away, the slap of waves from
the stiff breeze that was blowing indicated the shore line of the Sound.
There was no moon, and, while it was not particularly dark, objects and
surroundings at best were blurred and indistinct; but that, after all,
was a matter of little concern to Jimmie Dale--the first house beyond
was Mittel's. He reached the water's edge and kept along the shore.
There should be a little wharf, she had said. Yes; there it was--and
there, too, was a gleam of light from the house itself.

Jimmie Dale began to make an accurate mental note of his surroundings.
From the little wharf on which he now stood, a path led straight to the
house, bisecting what appeared to be a lawn, trees to the right, the
house to the left. At the wharf, beside him, two motor boats were
moored, one on each side. Jimmie Dale glanced at them, and, suddenly
attracted by the familiar appearance of one, inspected it a little more
closely. His momentarily awakened interest passed as he nodded his head.
It had caught his attention, that was all--it was the same type and
design, quite a popular make, of which there were hundreds around New
York, as the one he had bought that year as a tender for his yacht.

He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him--the
light that flooded the lawn came from a side window. Jimmie Dale was
figuring the time and distance from New York as he crept cautiously
along. How quickly could the Weasel make the journey? The Weasel would
undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove a
close race--but in his own favour was the fact that it would probably
take the Weasel quite some little time to recover his equilibrium from
his encounter with the Gray Seal in the Palais-Metropole, also the
further fact that, from the Weasel's