In a daze, P. Sybarite shook and felt himself all over, unable to
credit his escape from that rain of bullets.
But he was apparently unharmed.
_Kismet!_...
Then suddenly he quickened to the circumstances: the thing was
finished, November stunned and helpless at his feet, November's driver
making off, the crowd swarming round, the police an imminent menace.
Now if Marian were in the body of the town-car, as he believed, he
must get her out of it and away before the police and detectives could
overtake and apprehend them both.
Instant action, inspired audacity, a little luck--and the thing might
possibly be accomplished.
His chauffeur was crawling ignominiously out from beneath the touring
car--his countenance livid with grime and the pallor of fright.
Meeting the eye of his employer, he grinned a sheepish grin.
P. Sybarite seized him by the arm.
"Are you hurt?"
"Not ten cents' worth--much less a thousand dollars! No such luck!"
His mouth to the fellow's ear, P. Sybarite whispered hoarsely and
hurriedly:
"Unhook your license number--throw it in the car--get ready to move
on the word--lady in that car--kidnapped--I love her--d'you
understand?--we must get her away--another thousand in this for you--"
"Gotcha," the man cut in smartly. "And I'm with you to the last act!
Go to it, bo'--I like your style!"
Swinging about, P. Sybarite jumped upon the running-board of the
maroon-coloured car, wrenched the door open, and stumbled in.
In her evening frock and her cloak of furs, Marian lay huddled in a
corner, wrists and ankles alike made fast with heavy twine, her mouth
closed tight by a bandanna handkerchief passed round her jaws and
knotted at the nape of her neck. Above its folds her face was like
snow, but the little man thought to detect in her staring eyes a hint
of intelligence, and on this he counted with all his soul.
"Don't scream!" he pleaded as, whipping out a pocket knife, he severed
her bonds. "Don't do anything but depend on me. Pretend, if you like,
you don't know what's happening--likely you don't at that! No matter.
Have faith in me; I'll get you clear of this yet!"
He fancied a softening look in those wide and frightened eyes of a
child.
An instant's work loosed her scored and excoriated wrists; in another,
the bonds fell from her ankles. Deftly unknotting the bandage that
closed her mouth, he asked could she walk. With difficulty, in a husky
and painful whisper, but still courageously, she told him yes.
Hopeful, rather than counting on this assurance, he jumped out and
offered his hand. She put hers into it (and it was cold as ice),
stirred, rose stiffly, tottered to the door, and fell into his
arms....
A uniformed patrolman, breaking through the crowd about them, seized
P. Sybarite and held him fast.
"What's this? Who's this?" he gabbled incoherently, brandishing a
vaguely formidable fist.
"A lady, you fool!" P. Sybarite snapped. "Let go and catch that
scoundrel over there--if you're worth your salt."
He waved his free hand broadly in the direction taken by November's
driver.
Abruptly and without protest the patrolman released him, butted his
way through the crowd, and disappeared.
An arm boldly about Marian's waist, P. Sybarite helped her to the step
of the touring car--and blessed that prince among chauffeurs, who was
up and ready in his seat!
But now again he must be hindered: a plain-clothes man dropped a heavy
hand upon his shoulder and screwed the muzzle of a revolver into P.
Sybarite's ear.
"Under arrest!" he blatted wildly. "Carrying fire-arms! Causing a
crowd to collect--!"
"All right--all right!" P. Sybarite told him roughly. "I admit it. I'm
not resisting, am I? Take that gun out of my ear and help me get this
lady into the car before she's trampled and torn to pieces by these
staring fools!"
Stupidly enough, the man comprehended some part of his admonishment.
Staring blankly from the little man to the girl, he pocketed his
weapon and, grasping Marian's arm, assisted her into the touring car.
"Thanks!" cried P. Sybarite, jumping up on the running-board. "You're
most amiable, my friend!"
And with the heel of his open hand he struck the man forcibly upon the
chest, so that he reeled back, tripped over the hapchance foot of an
innocent by-stander, and went sprawling and blaspheming upon his back.
Somebody laughed hysterically.
"Go!" P. Sybarite cried to the chauffeur.
The crowd gave way before the lunge of the car....
They were halfway to Fifth Avenue before pursuit was thought of; had
turned the corner before it was fairly started; in five minutes had
thrown it off entirely and were running free at a moderate pace up
Broadway just above Columbus Circle....
"Where to now, boss?" the chauffeur presently enquired.
P. Sybarite looked enquiringly at his charge. Since her rescue she had
neither moved nor spoken--had rested motionless in her corner of the
tonneau, eyes closed, body relaxed and listless. But now she roused;
unveiled the dear wonder of her eyes of brown; even mustered up the
ghost of a smile.
"Wherever you think best," she told him gently.
"The Plaza? You might be bothered there. We may be traced--we're sure
to. This only saves us for the day. To-morrow--reporters--all
that--perhaps. Perhaps not!... Don't you know somebody out of town to
whom you could go for the day? Once across the city line, we're safe
for a little."
She nodded: breathed an address in Westchester County....
Some time later P. Sybarite became sensible of an amazing fact. A hand
of his rested on the cushioned seat, and in it lay, now warm and
wonderfully soft and light, Marian's hand.
He stared incredulously until he had confirmed the substance of this
impression; looked up blinking; met the confident, straightforward,
and wistful regard of the girl; and blushed to his brows.
The car swept on and on, through the golden hush of that glorious
Sunday morning....