“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; 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.