winding a path between the other vehicles, the while Mr. Birnes
regarded it with thoughtful gaze. Its number dangled on a white
board in the rear; Mr. Birnes just happened to note it.

"Grand Central Station, I'll bet a hat," he mused.

But the closed cab didn't turn into Forty-second Street; it went
past, then on past Delmonico's, past the Cathedral, past the Plaza,
at Fifty-ninth Street, and still on uptown. It was not hurrying--
it merely moved steadily; but once free of the snarl which culminates
at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to Central Park, its speed was
increased a little. Past Sixty-fourth Street, Sixty-fifth, Sixty-sixth,
and at Sixty-seventh it slowed up and halted at the sidewalk on the far
side.

"Stop in front of a door, Jimmy," directed the detective hastily.

Jimmy obeyed gracefully, and Mr. Birnes stepped out, hardly half a
block behind the closed cab. He went through an elaborate pretense
of paying Jimmy, the while he regarded Mr. Wynne, who had also
alighted and was paying the driver. The small sole-leather grip was
on the ground between his feet as he ransacked his pocketbook. A
settlement was reached, the cabby nodded, touched his horse with his
whip and continued to jog on up Fifth Avenue.

"Now, he didn't order that chap to come back or he wouldn't have paid
him," the detective reasoned. "Therefore he's close to where he is
going."

But Mr. Wynne seemed in no hurry; instead he stood still for a minute