With this the little man shot out into the hallway, slammed the door behind him, and darted into the adjoining bedroom.  Once there, he lost no time changing coats—­not forgetting to shift his money as well—­cocked the cap jauntily on one side of his head (a bit too big, it fitted better that way, anyhow) buttoned up, and left the room on the run.  For by this time the front doors had fallen in and the upper floor was echoing with deep, excited voices and heavy, hurrying footsteps.  In another moment or so they would be drawing the basement for fugitives.

He had planned—­vaguely, inconclusively—­to leave by the area door when the raiders turned their attention to the basement, presenting himself to the crowd in the street in the guise of an officer, and so make off.  But now—­with his fingers on the bolts—­misgivings assailed him.  He was physically not much like any policeman he had ever seen; and the blue tunic with its brass buttons was a wretched misfit on his slight body.  He doubted whether his disguise would pass unchallenged—­doubted so strongly that he doubled suddenly to the back door, flung it open, and threw himself out into the black strangeness of the night—­and at the same time into the arms of two burly plain-clothes men posted there to forestall precisely such an attempt at escape.

Strong arms clipping him, he struggled violently for an instant.

“Here!” a voice warned him roughly.  “It ain’t goin’ to do you no good—­”

Another interrupted with an accent of deep disgust, in patent recognition of his borrowed plumage:  “Damned if it ain’t a patrolman!”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” demanded the first as P. Sybarite fell back, free.

“Didn’t—­have—­time.  Here—­gimme a leg over this fence, will you?”

“What the devil—!”

“They’ve got a door through to the next house—­getting out that way.  That’s what I’m after—­to stop ’em.  Shut up!” P. Sybarite insisted savagely—­“and give me a leg.”

“Oh, well!” said one of the plain-clothes men in a slightly mollified voice—­“if that’s the way of it—­all right.”

“Come along, then,” brusquely insisted the impostor, leading the way to the eastern wall of boards enclosing the back yard.

Curiously complaisant for one of his breed, the detective bent his back and made a stirrup of his clasped hands, but no sooner had P. Sybarite fitted foot to that same than the man started and, straightening up abruptly, threw him flat on his back.

“Patrolman, hell!  Whatcha doin’ in them pants and shoes if you’re a patrol—­”

“Hel-lo!” exclaimed the other indignantly.  “Impersonatin’ an officer—­eh?”

With this he dived at P. Sybarite; who, having bounced up from a supine to a sitting position, promptly and peevishly swore, rolled to one side (barely eluding clutches that meant to him all those frightful and humiliating consequences that arrest means to the average man) and scrambled to his feet.