"
"Why can't I have it?"
"Ten dollars an hour--"
"I'll take it."
"But you _asked_ for a taxi," grumbled the man, rising to press a
button. Whereupon a bell shrilled somewhere in the dark backwards of
the establishment. "Deposit...?" he suggested, turning back.
P. Sybarite disbursed a golden double-eagle; and to the operator who,
roused by the bell, presently drifted out of the shadows, gaping and
rubbing his eyes, he promised a liberal tip for haste.
In two minutes he was rolling out of the garage, ensconced in the body
of a luxurious and high-powered touring machine which he strongly
suspected to be somebody's private car lawlessly farmed out while its
owner slept.
The twilight was now stronger, if still dull and as cold as the air it
coloured, rendering P. Sybarite grateful for Peter Kenny's inverness
as the car surged spiritedly up the deserted avenue, its disdain for
speed regulations ignored by the string of yawning peg-post
cops--almost the only human beings in sight.
Town was indeed deep sunk in lethargy at that small hour; the
traditional milk-wagon itself seemed to have been caught napping. With
one consent residence and shop and sky-scraping hotel blinked
apathetically at the flying car; then once more turned and slept. Even
the Bizarre had forgotten P. Sybarite--showed at least no sign of
recognition as he scurried past.
A curious sense of illusion troubled the little man.
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