ned to a leonine growl.

"Hello!" he exclaimed in surprise, real or feigned, to see P. Sybarite
take the seat by his side. "What t'ell? Who's payin' _you_ to be a
God-forsaken ass?"

"Did you think I'd ask you to run a risk that frightened me?"

"Dunno's I thought much about it, but 'f yuh wanta know what I think
now, _I_ think you oughta get a rebate outa whatcha give me--if you
live to apply for it. And I don't mind tellin' you, if you do, you
won't get it."

Again the spiteful drumming of the automatic: P. Sybarite swung round
in time to see one of the plain-clothes men return the fire with
several brisk shots, then abruptly drop his revolver, clap a hand to
his bosom, wheel about-face, and fall prone.

A cry shrilled up from the bystanders, only to be drowned out by
another, but fortunately more harmless, fusillade from the garage.

"Tunin' up!" commented the chauffeur grimly. "Sounds to me like they
was about ready to commence!"

P. Sybarite shut his teeth on a nervous tremor and lost a shade or two
of colour.

"Ready?" he said with difficulty.

The chauffeur's reply was muffled by another volley; on the echoes of
which the little man saw the nose of a car poke diagonally out of the
garage door, pause, swerve a trifle to the right, and pause once
again....

"They're coming!" he cried wildly. "Stand by, quick!"

The alarm was taken up and repeated by two-score throats, while those
dotting the street and sidewalks near by broke in swift panic and
began madly to scuttle to shelter within doorways and down basement
steps....

Like an arrow from the string, November's car broke cover at an angle.
Ignoring the slanting way from threshold to gutter, it took the bump
of the curb apparently at full tilt, and skidded to the northern curb
before it could be brought under control and its course shaped
eastward.

With a shiver P. Sybarite recognised that car.

It was not the taxicab that he had been led to expect, but the same
maroon-coloured limousine into which he had assisted Marian
Blessington at the Bizarre.

On its front seats were two men--Red November himself at the driver's
side, a revolver in either hand. And the body of the car contained one
passenger, at least, if P. Sybarite might trust to an impression
gained in one hasty glance through the forward windows as the car bore
down upon them--November's weapons spitting fire....

He could not say who that one passenger might be; but he could guess