eleven o'clock
So far , so good -- but the game was not ended yet for all the crackle of the crisp notes in his pocket . There was still the map , still the robbery at Mittel 's house -- the ten-thousand-dollar `` theft '' would not in any way change that , and it was a question of time now to forestall any move the Weasel might make . Through the city Jimmie Dale alternately dodged , spurted , and dragged his way , fuming with impatience ; but once out on the country roads and headed toward New Rochelle , the big machine , speed limits thrown to the winds , roared through the night -- a gray streak of road jumping under the powerful lamps ; a village , a town , a cluster of lights flashing by him , the steady purr of his sixty-horse-power engines ; the gray thread of open road again . It was just eleven o'clock when Jimmie Dale , the road to himself for the moment at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle , extinguished his lights , and very carefully ran his car off the road , backing it in behind a small clump of trees . He tossed the linen dust coat back into the car , and set off toward where , a little distance away , the slap of waves from the stiff breeze that was blowing indicated the shore line of the Sound . There was no moon , and , while it was not particularly dark , objects and surroundings at best were blurred and indistinct ; but that , after all , was a matter of little concern to Jimmie Dale -- the first house beyond was Mittel 's . He reached the water 's edge and kept along the shore .