His chauffeur was crawling ignominiously out from beneath the touring car—­his countenance livid with grime and the pallor of fright.  Meeting the eye of his employer, he grinned a sheepish grin.

P. Sybarite seized him by the arm.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not ten cents’ worth—­much less a thousand dollars!  No such luck!”

His mouth to the fellow’s ear, P. Sybarite whispered hoarsely and hurriedly: 

“Unhook your license number—­throw it in the car—­get ready to move on the word—­lady in that car—­kidnapped—­I love her—­d’you understand?—­we must get her away—­another thousand in this for you—­”

“Gotcha,” the man cut in smartly.  “And I’m with you to the last act!  Go to it, bo’—­I like your style!”

Swinging about, P. Sybarite jumped upon the running-board of the maroon-coloured car, wrenched the door open, and stumbled in.

In her evening frock and her cloak of furs, Marian lay huddled in a corner, wrists and ankles alike made fast with heavy twine, her mouth closed tight by a bandanna handkerchief passed round her jaws and knotted at the nape of her neck.  Above its folds her face was like snow, but the little man thought to detect in her staring eyes a hint of intelligence, and on this he counted with all his soul.

“Don’t scream!” he pleaded as, whipping out a pocket knife, he severed her bonds.  “Don’t do anything but depend on me.  Pretend, if you like, you don’t know what’s happening—­likely you don’t at that!  No matter.  Have faith in me; I’ll get you clear of this yet!”

He fancied a softening look in those wide and frightened eyes of a child.

An instant’s work loosed her scored and excoriated wrists; in another, the bonds fell from her ankles.  Deftly unknotting the bandage that closed her mouth, he asked could she walk.  With difficulty, in a husky and painful whisper, but still courageously, she told him yes.

Hopeful, rather than counting on this assurance, he jumped out and offered his hand.  She put hers into it (and it was cold as ice), stirred, rose stiffly, tottered to the door, and fell into his arms....

A uniformed patrolman, breaking through the crowd about them, seized P. Sybarite and held him fast.

“What’s this?  Who’s this?” he gabbled incoherently, brandishing a vaguely formidable fist.

“A lady, you fool!” P. Sybarite snapped.  “Let go and catch that scoundrel over there—­if you’re worth your salt.”

He waved his free hand broadly in the direction taken by November’s driver.

Abruptly and without protest the patrolman released him, butted his way through the crowd, and disappeared.

An arm boldly about Marian’s waist, P. Sybarite helped her to the step of the touring car—­and blessed that prince among chauffeurs, who was up and ready in his seat!

But now again he must be hindered:  a plain-clothes man dropped a heavy hand upon his shoulder and screwed the muzzle of a revolver into P. Sybarite’s ear.