He stepped gingerly into the front seat, and as Winthrop leaned over him and tucked and buckled the fur robe around his knees, he could not resist a glance at his friends on the sidewalk.  They were grinning with wonder and envy, and as the great car shook itself, and ran easily forward, Mr. Schwab leaned back and carelessly waved his hand.  But his mind did not waver from the purpose of his ride.  He was not one to be cajoled with fur rugs and glittering brass.

“Well, Mr. Winthrop,” he began briskly.  “You want to say something?  You must be quick—­every minute’s money.”

“Wait till we’re out of the traffic,” begged Winthrop anxiously “I don’t want to run down any more old men, and I wouldn’t for the world have anything happen to you, Mr.—­” He paused politely.

“Schwab—­Isadore Schwab.”

“How did you know my name?” asked Winthrop.

“The card you gave the police officer”

“I see,” said Winthrop.  They were silent while the car swept swiftly west, and Mr. Schwab kept thinking that for a young man who was afraid of the traffic, Winthrop was dodging the motor cars, beer vans, and iron pillars, with a dexterity that was criminally reckless.

At that hour Riverside Drive was empty, and after a gasp of relief, Mr. Schwab resumed the attack.

“Now, then,” he said sharply, “don’t go any further.  What is this you want to talk about?”

“How much will the Journal give you for this story of yours?” asked Winthrop.

Mr. Schwab smiled mysteriously.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” said Winthrop, “I think I could offer you something better.”

“You mean,” said the police-court lawyer cautiously, “you will make it worth my while not to tell the truth about what I saw?”

“Exactly,” said Winthrop.

“That’s all!  Stop the car,” cried Mr. Schwab.  His manner was commanding.  It vibrated with triumph.  His eyes glistened with wicked satisfaction.

“Stop the car?” demanded Winthrop, “what do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Schwab dramatically, “that I’ve got you where I want you, thank you.  You have killed Peabody dead as a cigar butt!  Now I can tell them how his friends tried to bribe me.  Why do you think I came in your car?  For what money you got?  Do you think you can stack up your roll against the New York Journal’s, or against Tammany’s?” His shrill voice rose exultantly.  “Why, Tammany ought to make me judge for this!  Now, let me down here,” he commanded, “and next time, don’t think you can take on `Izzy’ Schwab and get away with it.”

They were passing Grant’s Tomb, and the car was moving at a speed that Mr. Schwab recognized was in excess of the speed limit.

“Do you hear me?” he demanded, “let me down!”

To his dismay Winthrop’s answer was in some fashion to so juggle with the shining brass rods that the car flew into greater speed.  To “Izzy” Schwab it seemed to scorn the earth, to proceed by leaps and jumps.  But, what added even more to his mental discomfiture was, that Winthrop should turn, and slowly and familiarly wink at him.