He had revised his plans the instant Clifford had entered the dining-room--had seen instantly what was his best and only way. Getting Jack where he now sat had been simple. “Come on, Jack,--the police will get you for this, too!” he had cried. And Jack, befuddled with drink, and feeling that his lot now lay with these friends, had obeyed instantly and without question. Into Jack’s waiting car Loveman had sharply ordered those essential to his revised plan. “You know the Long Island roads?--the way to Greenport?” he had asked Jack after they were in their seats. “Sure.” “Then make Greenport as quick as you can. Remember that motor yacht Bradley spoke of?” He spoke with a cunning tone of excitedly pleasant anticipation. “We’re going to be a bunch of pirates,--going to capture the old tub--and you and Nina and Hilton and I are going to have a nice little cruise and wine party all to ourselves. How’s that?” “Gre’ stuff!” had been Jack’s enthusiastic comment. The wheel of his new speedster in his hands, there automatically came on Jack an exhilarating sense that here was another lark. It was just like so many other parties of months and years before that had started out hilariously from Broadway for a meteor-like rush through the dark to distant road-houses--just one more party, but with a thrill and excitement that topped all others. Even when drunk--that is, short of insensibility--Jack was a good driver. His hands seemed to have a peculiar brain of their own--albeit a reckless brain. Ten minutes after leaving Le Bain’s house they were across the bridge, and five minutes later they were in the stretches of the boulevard; and Jack, pointing with his toe to a lighted dial, was chuckling to Nina:-- “Nice li’l’ piece junk--eh, Nina? Doin’ her li’l’ ole sixty an hour, an’ ain’t half tryin’.” “But slow down at the turns, Jack. Please be careful!” “’M always careful. Never had an accident.” He laughed mischievously. “Goin’ to show you nice li’l’ breeze when we get out li’l’ farther--goin’ touch her up to ninety.” In the meanwhile, behind them, little Loveman was planning, planning--and acting. He drew out a thin morocco wallet, from it took a stamped envelope, and on this with a pencil he scrawled an address--the address of a New York bank where he had a personal account which was so private that there was not a scrap among his papers to indicate that such an account existed. Into this envelope he slipped the three checks Nina had given him, sealed it, placed it between the two halves of his wallet and replaced the wallet in his coat. That letter he would drop into a mail-box in Greenport.