At Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Fifth Street the car swung into Van Cortland Park, and switched off all lights.

Two minutes later they halted in a dark stretch of one of the by-roads of the Park.
"We'll be stopping only a minute, sir, to put on our right number plates," the man opened the door to explain.
Within the minute they were away again, now proceeding more leisurely, in the easy manner of a private car going about its private business--though the interior of the car was discreetly dark and Larry huddled discreetly into a corner.

Thus they drove over the Grand Boulevards and recrossed the Harlem River and presently drew up in front of a great apartment house in Park Avenue.
The man opened the door.

"Walk right in, sir, as though you belong here.
The doorman and the elevatorman are prepared." They might be prepared, but Larry certainly was not; and he shot up the elevator to the top floor with mounting bewilderment.

The man unlocked the door of an apartment, ushered Larry in, took his wet hat, then ushered the dazed Larry through the corner of a dim-lit drawing-room and through another door.
"You are to wait here, sir," said the man, and quietly withdrew.
Larry looked about him.