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Here Stern took the paddle, while Beatrice went to the bow and left all to his directing hand. By three o'clock in the afternoon they were drawing past Blackwell's Island. The Queensboro Bridge still stood, as did the railway bridges behind them; but much wreckage had fallen into the river, and in one place formed an ugly whirlpool, which Stern had to avoid by some hard work with the paddle.
A few sentences with this gentleman, and fifteen minutes later, huddled back in the darkened corner of a taxicab, she rolled over the Queensboro Bridge out upon Long Island on her mission of releasing a fact whose effect she could not foresee. An hour and a half after that Larry was leading her to a bench in the scented darkness of the Sherwoods' lawn. She had telephoned "Mr.
Carefully, almost sedately, he made his way to Third Avenue, then up to the Queensboro Bridge, and across that mighty runway to Long Island. Here his stock of patience, slender at the best, was exhausted. With a deep breath he "let her out" to a singing speed of sixty miles an hour.
However, a motorcycle squad was ready to lead the way through the press for Eyer and Jeter two grim-faced men now, who dared not look at each other, because each feared to show his abysmal fear to the other. Automobiles raced past on either side of them driven by crazy men and hysterical women. "Queensboro Bridge will be packed tight as a drum," said Eyer quietly. Jeter didn't seem to hear.
I landed at Queensboro' on a typical English November afternoon; raw and dark, with a drizzle falling that threatened every moment to thicken into a regular fog. There were very few passengers, and I thought at first I was going to have the compartment to myself; but, at the last moment, a man got in whom I recognized at once as Lord Southbourne.
It was well on toward daybreak before they rolled over the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan. It was his second day without sleep, but Shirley was sustained by the bizarre nature of the exploit: he could have kept at the steering wheel for an eternity. "Are you glad we're getting back?" he asked. Helene shook her head, then she answered dreamily.
Wires had plainly been pulled, too, for a motorcycle escort joined them at the Queensboro Bridge and led them, sirens screaming, to their meeting with George Hadley, the publisher. They looked at each other in surprise when they were admitted to the meeting. Hadley's huge offices were packed. The mayor was there, the police commissioner, the assistant to the head of Federal Secret Service.
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