Fortunately he hadn't far to run; else he would certainly have been
waylaid or overhauled by some policeman of enquiring turn of mind,
anxious (in the way of duty) to learn his reason for such
extraordinary haste.
As it was, P. Sybarite managed to make his goal in record time without
attracting the attention of more than half a dozen wayfarers; all of
whom gave him way and went their own with that complete indifference
so distinctly Manhattanesque....
He had emerged from the restaurant building to find the street bare of
any sort of hirable conveyance and himself in a fret too exacting to
consider walking to the Plaza or taking a street-car thither. Nothing
less than a taxicab--and that, one with a speed-mad chauffeur--would
satisfy his impatient humour.
And indeed, if there were a grain of truth in his suspicions, formless
though in a measure they remained, he had not an instant to lose.
But on the way to the Bizarre from Peter Kenny's rooms, some freak of
a mind superficially preoccupied had caused him to remark, on the
south side of Forty-third Street, immediately east of Sixth Avenue, a
long rank of buildings which an utilitarian age had humbled from their
once proud estate of private stables to the lowlier degree of quarters
for motor vehicles both public and private.
Of these one building boasted the blazing electric announcement: "_ALL
NIGHT GARAGE_.
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