“Of course I do,” said the captive, gaily; “it’s part of the programme that you should get me.  Only, for Heaven’s sake, don’t spoil the film by remaining inactive, you goat!  Struggle with me—­handle me roughly—­throw me about.  Make it look real; make it look as though I actually did get away from you, not as though you let me.  You chaps behind there, don’t get in the way of the camera—­it’s in one of those cabs.  Now, then, Bobby, don’t be wooden!  Struggle—­struggle, you goat, and save the film!”

“Save the what?” gasped Collins.  “Here!  Good Lord!  Do you mean to say—?”

“Struggle—­struggle—­struggle!” cut in the man impatiently.  “Can’t you grasp the situation?  It’s a put-up thing:  the taking of a kinematograph film—­a living picture—­for the Alhambra to-night!  Heavens above, Marguerite, didn’t you tell him?”

“Non, non!  There was not ze time.  You come so quick, I could not.  And he—­ah, le bon Dieu!—­he gif me no chance.  Officair, I beg, I entreat of you, make it real!  Struggle, fight, keep on ze constant move.  Zere!”—­something tinkled on the pavement with the unmistakable sound of gold—­“zere, monsieur, zere is the half-sovereign to pay you for ze trouble, only, for ze lof of goodness, do not pick it up while the instrument—­ze camera—­he is going.  It is ze kinematograph, and you would spoil everything!”

The chop-fallen cry that Collins gave was lost in a roar of laughter from the pursuing crowd.

“Struggle—­struggle!  Don’t you hear, you idiot?” broke in the red-headed man irritably.  “You are being devilishly well paid for it, so for goodness’ sake make it look real.  That’s it!  Bully boy!  Now, once more to the right, then loosen your grip so that I can push you away and make a feint of punching you off.  All ready there, Marguerite?  Keep a clear space about her, gentlemen.  Ready with the motor, chauffeur?  All right.  Now, then, Bobby, fall back, and mind your eye when I hit out, old chap.  One, two, three—­here goes!”

With that he pushed the chop-fallen Collins from him, made a feint of punching his head as he reeled back, then sprang toward the spot where the Frenchwoman stood, and gave a finish to the adventure that was highly dramatic and decidedly theatrical.  For “mademoiselle,” seeing him approach her, struck a pose, threw out her arms, gathered him into them—­to the exceeding enjoyment of the laughing throng—­then both looked back and behaved as people do on the stage when “pursued,” gesticulated extravagantly, and, rushing to the waiting motor, jumped into it.

“Many thanks, Bobby; many thanks, everybody!” sang out the red-headed man.  “Let her go, chauffeur.  The camera men will pick us up again at Whitehall, in a few minutes’ time.”

“Right you are, sir,” responded the chauffeur gaily.  Then “toot-toot” went the motor-horn as the gentleman in grey closed the door upon himself and his companion, and the vehicle, darting forward, sped down the Embankment in the exact direction whence the man himself had originally come, and, passing directly through that belated portion of the hurrying crowd to whom the end of the adventure was not yet known, flew on and—­vanished.