Five minutes of luck, aided by nerve, brought the two machines somewhat
nearer together. The motor-car gained in the open spaces, the taxicab
caught up when it came to weaving its way in and out and dodging the
trolleys. At the frequent moments when he appeared to be losing the
car, Hambleton reflected that he had its number, which might lead to
something. At the Waldorf the car slowed up, and the cab came within a
few yards. Hambleton made up his mind at that instant that he had been
mistaken in his supposition of trouble threatening the lady, and looked
momently to see her step from the car into the custody of those
starched and lacquered menials who guard the portals of fashionable
hotels.

But it was not so. A signal was interchanged between the occupants of
the car and some watcher in the doorway, and the car sped on.
Hambleton, watching steadily, wondered!

"If she is being kidnapped, why doesn't she make somebody hear? Plenty
of chance. They couldn't have killed her--that isn't done."

And yet his heart smote him as he remembered the terror and distress
written on that countenance and the cry for help.

"Something was the matter," memory insisted. "There they go west; west
Tenth, Alexander Street, Tenth Avenue--"

The car lumbered on, the cab half a block, often more, in the rear,
through endless regions of small shops and offices huddled together
above narrow sidewalks, through narrow and winding streets paved with
cobblestones and jammed with cars and trucks, squeezing past curbs