"I've about time to go to Eighty-third Street, get my suit case, and catch my train at 125th Street." To a servant he said, "Call a hansom," then rose and sauntered downstairs to the cloakroom, where presently both men stood, hatted and gloved, swinging their sticks.
"That was a fool bet you made," began Kerns; "I'll release you, Jack." "Sorry, but I must insist on holding you," replied Gatewood, laughing.
"You're going to your doom.

Come on! I'll see you as far as the cab door." They walked out, and Kerns gave the cabby the street and number and entered the hansom.
"Now," said Gatewood, "you're in for it! You're done for! You can't help yourself! I've won my twelve-gauge trap gun already, and I'll have to set you up in table silver, anyway, so it's an even break.

You're all in, Tommy! The Tracer is on your trail!" In the beginning of a flippant retort Kerns experienced a curious sensation of hesitation.

Something in Gatewood's earnestness, in his jeering assurance and delighted certainty, made him, for one moment, feel doubtful, even uncomfortable.
"What nonsense you talk," he said, recovering his equanimity.

"Nothing on earth can prevent me driving to 38 East Eighty-third Street, getting my luggage, and taking the Boston express.