With these questions in his mind, the minutes quickly passed, and it was with a thrill of excitement Wharton saw that Nolan had left the Zoological Gardens on the right and turned into the Boston Road.  It had but lately been completed and to Wharton was unfamiliar.  On either side of the unscarred roadway still lay scattered the uprooted trees and bowlders that had blocked its progress, and abandoned by the contractors were empty tar-barrels, cement-sacks, tool-sheds, and forges.  Nor was the surrounding landscape less raw and unlovely.  Toward the Sound stretched vacant lots covered with ash heaps; to the left a few old and broken houses set among the glass-covered cold frames of truck-farms.

The district attorney felt a sudden twinge of loneliness.  And when an automobile sign told him he was “10 miles from Columbus Circle,” he felt that from the New York he knew he was much farther.  Two miles up the road his car overhauled a bicycle policeman, and Wharton halted him.

“Is there a road-house called Kessler’s beyond here?” he asked.

“On the left, farther up,” the officer told him, and added:  “You can’t miss it, Mr. Wharton; there’s no other house near it.”

“You know me,” said the D.A.  “Then you’ll understand what I want you to do.  I’ve agreed to go to that house alone.  If they see you pass they may think I’m not playing fair.  So stop here.”

The man nodded and dismounted.

“But,” added the district attorney, as the car started forward again, “if you hear shots, I don’t care how fast you come.”

The officer grinned.

“Better let me trail along now,” he called; “that’s a tough joint.”

But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the man still stood where they had parted.

Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as it passed, the driver lifted his hand from the wheel and with his thumb motioned behind him.

“That’s one of the men,” said Nolan, “that started with Mr. Rumson and Hewitt from Delmonico’s.”

Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been no hitch, smiled with satisfaction.  A moment later, when ahead of them on the asphalt road Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he recognized the signal and knew that within call were friends.

The yellow ciagarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden building of two stories.  It was linked to the road by a curving driveway marked on either side by whitewashed stones.  On verandas enclosed in glass Wharton saw white-covered tables under red candle-shades and, protruding from one end of the house and hung with electric lights in paper lanterns, a pavilion for dancing.  In the rear of the house stood sheds and a thick tangle of trees on which the autumn leaves showed yellow.  Painted fingers and arrows pointing, and an electric sign, proclaimed to all who passed that this was Kessler’s.  In spite of its reputation, the house wore the aspect of the commonplace.  In evidence nothing flaunted, nothing threatened.  From a dozen other inns along the Pelham Parkway and the Boston Post Road it was in no way to be distinguished.