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!.
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