"It's only twelve miles to the Connecticut line.

As soon as you're across, buy him clothes and a ticket to Boston.
Go through White Plains to Greenwich--and then you're safe!" As though suddenly remembering the presence of the owner of the car, he swung upon Fred.

"Am I right ?" he demanded.
"Of course!" roared Fred.

He flung his arm at the chauffeur as though throwing him into space.
"Get-to-hell-out-of-here!" he shouted.
The chauffeur, by profession a criminal, but by birth a human being, chuckled savagely and this time threw in the clutch.

With a grinding of gravel the racing-car leaped into the night, its ruby rear lamp winking in farewell, its tiny siren answering the great siren of the prison in jeering notes of joy and victory.
Fred had supposed that at the last moment the younger convict proposed to leap to the running-board, but instead the stranger remained motionless.
Fred shouted impotently after the flying car.