;
and guessing, knew the automatic in his grasp to be useless; he dared
not fire at the gangster for fear of loosing a wild bullet into the
body of the car....

Now they were within fifty feet of one another. By contrast with the
apparent slowness of the touring car to get in motion, the limousine
seemed already to have attained locomotive speed.

A yell and a shot from one of November's revolvers (P. Sybarite saw
the bullet score the asphalt not two feet from the forward wheel)
warned them to clear the way as the gang leader's car swerved wide to
pass them.

And on this the touring car seemed to get out of control, swinging
across the street. Immediately the other, crowded to the gutter,
attempted to take the curb, but, the wheels meeting it at an angle not
sufficiently acute, the manoeuvre failed. To a chorus of yells
November's driver shut down the brakes not a thought too soon--not
soon enough, indeed, to avoid a collision that crumpled a mudguard as
though it had been a thing of pasteboard.

Simultaneously P. Sybarite's chauffeur set the brakes, and with the
agility of a hounded rabbit seeking its burrow, dived from his seat to
the side of the car farthest from the gangsters.

In an instant he was underneath it.

P. Sybarite, on the other hand, had leaped before the accident.

Staggering a pace or two--and all the time under fire--he at length
found his feet not six feet from the limousine. It had stopped
broadside on. In this position he commanded the front seats without
great danger of sending a shot through the body.

His weapon rose mechanically and quite deliberately he took
aim--making assurance doubly sure throughout what seemed an age made
sibilant by the singing past his head of the infuriated gangster's
bullets.

But his finger never tightened upon the trigger.

November had ceased firing and was plucking nervously at the slide of
his automatic. His driver had jumped down from his seat and was
scuttling madly up the street.

In a breath P. Sybarite realised what was the matter: as automatics
will, when hot with fast firing, November's had choked on an empty
shell.

With a sob of excitement the little man lowered his weapon and flung
himself upon the gang leader.

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