At four o'clock of a dull afternoon last month, a Lincoln motor ear waited outside the office door of the Metropolitan Opera House, Manhattan. Some nondescript fellows who were arriving in twos and threes at the same door glanced at their watches and then, nervously, at the big car where it crouched beside the curb, glittering in the grey air as if its glass and brass and nickel work were lit with a secret sunlight. For whom was it waiting?
The fellows may have been apprehensive because...
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