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the racing-car business?”
    “Trying to be,” Peter said. He gave the man his name and said, “We’re in a race next Saturday. Do you race?”
    “No. I wish I did, though. My name’s Clinton Lanier.” After introductions were made, Peter asked, “What do you do, Clinton?”
    “Why, I work in my father’s brokerage house.”
    “Oh, a stockbroker! That sounds like a good life!” Jolie exclaimed.
    “Good? It’s terrible! I go to the same old office every day.”
    Jolie studied the young man, who was not over five ten but trim and well built. There was an air of money about him, something she had learned to discern long ago. “Why don’t you buy a race car and get into the swim yourself?” she asked.
    “I’d like to, Miss Devorak, but my father—well, he doesn’t quite see things my way.”
    “Well, that may be, but if you’d like to see the car that’s going to beat them all, you’ll have to drop in at the race next Saturday. It’s going to be a good one. People are coming from all over, but I think we can win. Don’t you reckon, Easy?”
    Easy Devlin was rather gloomy as he replied, “I don’t know, Peter. It’s going to be hard—some stiff competition out there.”
    Clinton was intrigued by his new acquaintances. He walked around with them at their invitation and fell into conversation with Phil. He found it fascinating that Phil was a cowboy and was going to be an artist.
    “I guess I admire you a lot, Phil—giving up your family business to do what you really want to do.”
    “Sometimes I think I’m the world’s biggest fool,” Phil shrugged. “But I’ve got to give it a try, or I’ll never forgive myself when I get old.”
    Phil’s answer seemed to trouble Clinton, and he said little for a while. When it was time to leave, he said, “Can I give you a lift, Phil?”
    “Why, sure.” They said good-bye to the others, and Phil got into Clinton’s horse-drawn buggy parked a block from Madison Square Garden. “I figured you’d have an automobile,” he said.
    “Father thinks they’re a fad. He’s wrong about that.”
    Phil gave directions to his boardinghouse and listened as Clinton spoke with great enthusiasm about cars. Finally, Phil said, “You know a great deal about cars. Did you ever have one?”
    “No. Father wouldn’t stand for that, but I have a friend who has one. We’ve taken it apart a dozen times. It’s aboutthe only hobby I have, and I can’t say anything at home about it. Father would burst a blood vessel.”
    It was dark when they reached the old brownstone on Nassau Street, and Clinton halted the horse and pulled the buggy to a stop.
    They got out and walked toward the steps, still speaking eagerly about automobiles. Both men were startled when out of the shadows a rough voice broke into their conversation.
    “Hold it right there, you two! Let’s have your money and there’ll be no trouble!”
    Phil turned cold and wheeled to face the three men who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Their faces were invisible in the gloom, but he saw at once that two of them carried knives, and one had a stout club about two feet long in his hand.
    The leader, the largest of the trio, held out his knife, then put out his free hand. “Just put your money in there, and you gents can go on. No trouble now, is it?”
    Clinton said at once, “Do as he says, Phil. We don’t need to get killed over money.”
    Clinton had no qualms about forking over what money he carried to avoid trouble, for he had plenty more. But Phil’s entire bankroll was in his pocket, and he had no intention of giving it up to some roughnecks. He planted his legs firmly and held his hands slightly out from his sides, saying, “You fellows move along. You won’t get a dime from us.”
    A laugh came from the three as they made a half circle around the two men. One of them, a tall man with a derby pulled down over his face, waved his club in the air and said, “I’ll bust your face in! What would