On we sped, around the bend where Warrington had been held up. It
was a nasty curve, even in the daytime.
"I think this fellow ahead noticed the place," gritted Garrick,
leaning forward. "He seemed to slow up a bit as he turned. I hope
he didn't notice us as he turned his head back slightly."
It made no difference, if he did, for, the curve passed, he was
evidently feeding the gas faster than ever. We turned the curve
also, the forward car something more than a quarter of a mile
ahead of us.
"We must take a chance and close up on him," said Garrick, as he,
too, accelerated his speed, not a difficult thing to do with the
almost perfect racer of Warrington's. "He may turn off at a
crossroad at any time, now."
Still our man kept on, bowling northward along the fine state road
that led to one of the richest parts of the country.
He came to the attractive entrance to Tuxedo Park. Almost, I had
expected him to turn in. At least I should not have been surprised
if he had done so.
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