When Wilson's car had gone on, he went automatically about his preparations
for the return trip--lifted a seat cushion to investigate his own store of
gasolene, replacing carefully the revolver he always carried under the seat
and packed in waste to prevent its accidental discharge, lighted his lamps,
examined a loose brake-band.

His coolness gratified him. He had been an ass: Le Moyne was right. He'd
get away--to Cuba if he could--and start over again. He would forget the
Street and let it forget him.

The men in the garage were talking.

"To Schwitter's, of course," one of them grumbled. "We might as well go
out of business."

"There's no money in running a straight place. Schwitter and half a dozen
others are getting rich."

"That was Wilson, the surgeon in town. He cut off my brother-in-law's
leg--charged him as much as if he had grown a new one for him. He used to
come here. Now he goes to Schwitter's, like the rest. Pretty girl he had
with him. You can bet on Wilson."

So Max Wilson was taking Sidney to Schwitter's, making her the butt of
garage talk! The smiles of the men were evil. Joe's hands grew cold, his
head hot. A red mist spread between him and the line of electric lights.
He knew Schwitter's, and he knew Wilson.

He flung himself into his car and threw the throttle open. The car jerked,
stalled.