the cold moon adding its brilliance to that already brilliant square, the winter wind sighing through the bare trees of the park—New York seemed a city of dreams. Suddenly the chauffeur of Minot's taxi stood uneasily before him.
"Say, you ain't going to shoot anybody, are you?" he asked.
"Oh, no—you needn't be afraid of that."
"I ain't afraid. I just thought I'd take off my license number if you was."
Ah, yes—New York! City of beautiful dreams!
Another hour slipped by. And only the little taxi meter was busy, winking mechanically at the unresponsive moon.
At eight-fifteen a tall blond man, in a very expensive fur coat which impressed even the cab starter, came down the steps of the hotel. He ordered a limousine and was whirled away to the west. At eight-fifteen and a half Mr. Minot followed.
Lord Harrowby's car proceeded to the drive and, turning, sped north between the moonlit river and the moonlit apartment-houses. In the
