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.
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