She gave it a swift examination. "Yes," said she. "It's almost like my
own car."

"Then I'll lead, and you follow, Miss."

"But I can't--I don't know who--I don't _want_ your van. Where shall
we--"

"Go?" he supplied. "To jail, I judge, unless we go somewhere else and do
it _now_. Come on! We're off!"

Overborne by his insistence and further influenced by the scowl of the
approaching officer, she took the wheel. At the close of some involved
but triumphant maneuverings the exchanged vans removed themselves from
the path of progress, headed eastward to Fourth Avenue and bore
downtownward. Piloting a strange machine through rush traffic kept the
girl in the trailer too busy for speculation, until, in the recesses of
a side street, her leader stopped and she followed suit. Mr. Dyke's
engaging and confident face appeared below her.

"Within," he stated, pointing to a quaint Gothic doorway, "they dispense
the succulent pig's foot and the innocuous and unconvincing
near-but-not-very-beer. It is also possible to get something to eat and
drink. May I help you down, Miss?"

"No," said the girl dolefully. "I want to go home."

"But on your own showing, you haven't any home."