But more
than once in the course of the afternoon a vague uneasiness seized me.
For, after all, Godfrey's explanation did not account for Mrs. Magnus'
strained and frightened manner. If the story she had told me was a
lie, she was certainly a consummate actress. I had never credited her
with any ability in that direction.
A consummate forger, too!
The thought stung me upright. Of course, if her story was a lie, she
herself had written the note. Had Godfrey thought of that? Or was it
Godfrey who was trying to throw dust in my eyes?
CHAPTER II
It was raining when I left my apartment at the Marathon that night--a
cold and disagreeable drizzle--and the thought occurred to me as I
turned up my coat collar and stepped into the cab I had summoned, that
it was a somewhat foolhardy thing to be driving about the streets of
New York with fifty thousand dollars in my hand bag. I glanced at the
lights of the Tenderloin police station, just across the street, and
thought for an instant of going over and asking for an escort. Then I
sank back into the seat with a little laugh at my own nervousness.
"One-twenty West Twenty-third," I said, as the cabman slammed the
apron shut.
He nodded, spoke to his horse, and we were off.
The asphalt was gleaming with the rain, and a thin fog was in the air,
which formed a nimbus around the street lamps and drew a veil before
the shop windows. Far away I heard the rattle of the elevated and the
never-ceasing hum of Sixth Avenue and Broadway, but, save for these
reminders of the city's life, the silence of the street was broken
only by the click-clack of our horse's hoofs.
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