Jimmie Dale glanced at them, and, suddenly attracted by the familiar appearance of one, inspected it a little more closely.

His momentarily awakened interest passed as he nodded his head.
It had caught his attention, that was all--it was the same type and design, quite a popular make, of which there were hundreds around New York, as the one he had bought that year as a tender for his yacht.
He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him--the light that flooded the lawn came from a side window.

Jimmie Dale was figuring the time and distance from New York as he crept cautiously along.

How quickly could the Weasel make the journey?
The Weasel would undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove a close race--but in his own favour was the fact that it would probably take the Weasel quite some little time to recover his equilibrium from his encounter with the Gray Seal in the Palais-Metropole, also the further fact that, from the Weasel's viewpoint, there was no desperate need of haste.

Jimmie Dale crossed the lawn, and edged along in the shadows of the house to where the light streamed out from what now proved to be open French windows.