The cab shot after it just before the traffic policeman’s hand rose against the oncoming tide. “Friday, Friday, Friday,” chanted the driver. “All going to Long Island, and what do we say when they ask us where we’re going?” Indus produced his license. “Crime business.” “Have we gas?” asked Gamadge, when the bridge was passed. The Billig car was going steadily on through blistering streets. “Unless he’s bound for Montauk,” said the driver, who was getting up an interest in the pursuit. Dr. Billig was not bound for Montauk; he turned off the highway, drove for twenty minutes, and at last drew up in a shady block, before a small stucco house. Children played in the neighboring yards, a bus went past the further end of the street. The cab slowed, reversed, stopped short of the corner. Indus tore off his coat, wrenched the door open, and sprang to the ground.
