With a lithe, agile movement, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up and through the window—­and began to creep rapidly on hands and knees toward the garage.  It was dark, intensely dark.  He could barely distinguish Benson’s form, though, as he passed the other, the slight sounds he made drowned out by the chauffeur’s angry mumblings, he could have reached out and touched Benson easily.

He gained the interior of the garage, and, as Benson, came on again, stepped lightly into the car, lifted the seat, and wriggled his way inside.

It was close, stuffy, abominably cramped, but Jimmie Dale was smiling grimly now.  Thanks to Benson, there wasn’t a possibility that he had been seen.  He both felt and heard Benson start the car.  Then the car moved forward, ran the length of the driveway, bumped slightly as it made the street—­and stopped.  He heard Benson jump out and run back—­and then he listened intently, and the grim smile flickered on his lips again.  Came the sound of a footstep on the sidewalk close beside the car—­then silence—­the car shook a little as though some one’s weight was on the step—­then the footsteps receded—­Benson returned on the run—­and the car started forward once more.

Perhaps ten minutes passed.  Three times the car had swerved sharply, making a corner turn.  Then Jimmie Dale pushed up the seat, and, protected from observation from behind by the back of the car itself, crawled out and crouched down on the floor of the tonneau.

“Don’t look around, Benson,” he said calmly.  “Are we followed?”

“Yes, sir.”  Benson answered.  “At least, there’s always been a car behind us, though not the same one.  They’re pretty clever.  There must be three or four, each following the other.  Every time I turn a corner it’s a different car that turns it behind me.”

“How far behind?” Jimmie Dale asked.

“Half a block.”

“Slow down a little,” instructed Jimmie Dale; “and don’t turn another corner until they’ve had a chance to accommodate themselves to your new speed.  You are going too fast for me to jump, and I don’t want them to notice any change in speed, except what is made in plain sight.  Yes; that’s better.  Where are we, Benson?”

“That’s Amsterdam Avenue ahead,” replied Benson.

“All right,” said Jimmie Dale quietly.  “Turn into it.  The more people the better.  Tell me just as you are about to turn.”

“Yes, sir,” said Benson; then, almost on the instant, “All ready, sir!”

Jimmie Dale’s hand reached out for the door catch, edged the door ajar, the car swerved, took the corner—­and Jimmie Dale stepped out on the running board, hung there negligently for a moment as though chatting with Benson, and then with an airy “good-night” dropped nonchalantly to the ground, and the next instant had mingled with the throng of pedestrians on the sidewalk.

A half minute later, a large gray automobile turned the corner and followed Benson—­and Jimmie Dale, stepping out into the street again, swung on a downtown car.  The road to the Sanctuary was open!