They were nearing the Harlem. Would the vehicle cross the bridge and proceed up into the country beyond? Pursuit—it was folly to think of any one being able to pursue them, at least for some time to come, and a trail grows cold with waiting. No wonder then the artist felt jolly. He believed his plan had been a complete success, and that the prize was his own. Ah! the Harlem at last. Those curved lines of lights indicated the bridge that stretched across. The horses’ feet fall upon the planking—their course then was over the river. As for Eric, he was quite indifferent now whither they took him. He had made up his mind to see this thing through and to save Lillian for his friend and it did not matter whether the climax came to pass in the city or country. He meant it should be severe. As Joe Leslie’s best friend he would teach this masher a lesson he would never forget if he survived it. The driver once or twice tried to strike up a conversation with him, but Eric ordered him to pay no attention to anything but his horses. Then a thought coming to him, he told the man that if the gentleman inside should notice his presence and demand to know who he was, that the driver should claim him as a friend and let it pass. This the man said he would do—he had a horror of being concerned in a murder trial, and this was what the other threatened him with. They crossed the bridge and continued on—houses were plenty, gas lamps dispelled the darkness at intervals, but at the same time there seemed to be something of the country about them—the great metropolis with its two millions of inhabitants, its bustle and electric lights lay behind them. For a short time longer the night ride was continued, and then, to the satisfaction of the detective, it ended. They came to a quiet street. The artist poked his head out of the window which he had dropped in the door. “To the left—first house you come to.” “Ay, ay, sir.” “Hello, there! who the deuce have you with you, driver?” as he caught sight of Eric. “A friend, sir. Thought it’d be a lonely ride back, and took him for company,” replied jehu. “All right, I suppose.” That was over then, and no damage done. Now for the next. The hack drew up in front of a picturesque cottage, just back from the road—as far as Eric could see it was bowered in vines and just the place an artist might be supposed to select, if he used his artistic taste at all. Lights were in the rooms. They must be expected. Down jumped the driver—Eric followed close upon his heels, for he did not mean to give the fellow any chance to betray him, and he knew it would be human nature for the jehu to endeavor to warn his liberal patron. CHAPTER XXII ALMOST Again the detective showed his knowledge of the animal—man. The driver had been thinking of this very thing, and as the artist came out of the hack first he made a great ado over helping him. At the same time he started to say: