* * * * * He jabbed at a pearl button until the private elevator floated up to him. He reached the street and turned toward the Avenue. He saw there a gray taxi. A young man sat on the driver’s seat. He was moving southward close by the right curb. A swift sprint, a ducking lunge before the silver radiator of a polished limousine, a hasty reach for the wind-shield of the taxi, and a startled exclamation from the driver--these occurred within seven seconds. “I’m going downtown,” said Fay, settling back in the front seat and staring boldly at the driver. “Don’t mind if I ride out here?” “I certainly do! It’s against the company’s regulations.” “Set the meter and drive on. I’ve really got something I want to say to you.” “Well, of all the nerve!” “Certainly--certainly! I’ve always been interested in this new company with the gray taxies and the paroled men who drive them. I’m a Western newspaper man--come from Chicago. Suppose you tell me all about the Gray Taxi Company. How many taxies are there? Who’s the originator? How’s business? Do you cover the steamship docks?” “Say! On the dead, you’ve got nerve. I’m going to call the first traffic cop I meet. There’s one!” Fay reached into his right-hand trouser pocket. His hand appeared with a five-dollar bill between his fingers. “I’ll bet you this you don’t,” he said, pressing the bill into the driver’s lap. “Take it and buy a good dinner. There’s another coming to you if you answer my questions.” The driver clutched the steering-wheel with both hands as he brought his knees together and pressed a leather toe upon the throttle. The taxi leaped by the traffic cop, dodged a bus and roared on down the Avenue until an open place was gained. “Go slow,” said Fay. “Loaf along and let me get some dope for my article. Who owns the Gray Taxi Company?” “James Ponsardin.” “Proprietor of the morning _Messenger_?” “Sure! He owns the company.” “How many taxies?” “Fifty running now.” “Who manages it?” “A girl!” “What?” “Sure! Her name is Elsie De Groot. She’s making it pay, too.” “That’s interesting.” Fay stared into the alert face of the driver at the wheel. “Is she an ex-convict?” “I never heard that said about her!” “Loyal!” thought Chester Fay, shifting in his position. “You never heard,” he repeated aloud. “That’s definite. Do you keep records of passengers carried?” “We make a report out at night. Miss Elsie gets them.” “Do your taxies cover the steamship docks?” “Sometimes--if there’s a call.” Fay saw that he was in the presence of a very matter-of-fact young man who was making his own way in the world. “Mind taking me to the Southampton Line?” he asked. The driver’s answer was to glance around the right-hand side of the taxi, slow to a crawl, then swing the corner with both arms over the wheel. * * * * *