November rose to meet him, reversing his pistol and aiming at P.
Sybarite's head a murderous blow. This, however, the little man was
alert to dodge. November came bodily into his arms. Grappling, the two
reeled and went down, P. Sybarite's fingers closing on the throat of
the assassin just as the latter's head struck the pavement with brutal
force.
The man shivered, grunted, and lay still.
P. Sybarite disengaged and got up on his feet.
XXII
TOGETHER
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.
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