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Trencher, drawing up alongside the limousine, was searching vainly for a monogram, a crest or a name on its varnished flank while he spoke. "Driver," he said sharply, "whose car is this?" "Mr. O'Gavin's," the chauffeur answered without turning to look at the person asking the question. Trencher played a blind lead and yet not such a very blind lead either.
Well, he had worked fast and with results gratifying. The spats that might have betrayed him were safely hidden in one place yonder between the seat cushions of O'Gavin's car, which stood where he had left it, not thirty feet distant. His telltale overcoat and his derby hat were safely bestowed in the café check room behind him awaiting a claimant who meant never to return.
Big as New York was there was likely to be but one O'Gavin in it who would have a car such as this one anchored in front of the Clarenden and that would be the noted bookmaker. Trencher played his card. "Jerome O'Gavin's, eh?" he inquired casually as though stating a foregone conclusion. "Yes, sir; it's his car." And now the driver twisted his body and half-faced Trencher.
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