“You’d better,” said the soiled person morosely, “or, he’ll try to shake you down.”

The opinions as to what might be Mr. Gaylor’s next move seemed unanimous.

From the saloon below, Winthrop telephoned to the family doctor, and then rejoined Miss Forbes and the Police officer.  The officer gave him the names of those citizens who had witnessed the accident, and in return received Winthrop’s card.

“Not that it will go any further,” said the officer reassuringly.  “They’re all saying you acted all right and wanted to take him to Roosevelt.  There’s many,” he added with sententious indignation, “that knock a man down, and then run away without waiting to find out if they’ve hurted ’em or killed ’em.”

The speech for both Winthrop and Miss Forbes was equally embarrassing.

“You don’t say?” exclaimed Winthrop nervously.  He shook the policeman’s hand.  The handclasp was apparently satisfactory to that official, for he murmured “Thank you,” and stuck something in the lining of his helmet.  “Now, then!” Winthrop said briskly to Miss Forbes, “I think we have done all we can.  And we’ll get away from this place a little faster than the law allows.”

Miss Forbes had seated herself in the car, and Winthrop was cranking up, when the same policeman, wearing an anxious countenance, touched him on the arm.  “There is a gentleman here,” he said, “wants to speak to you.”  He placed himself between the gentleman and Winthrop and whispered:  “He’s `Izzy’ Schwab, he’s a Harlem police-court lawyer and a Tammany man.  He’s after something, look out for him.”

Winthrop saw, smiling at him ingratiatingly, a slight, slim youth, with beady, rat-like eyes, a low forehead, and a Hebraic nose.  He wondered how it had been possible for Jerry Gaylor to so quickly secure counsel.  But Mr. Schwab at once undeceived him.

“I’m from the Journal,” he began, “not regular on the staff, but I send ’em Harlem items, and the court reporter treats me nice, see!  Now about this accident; could you give me the name of the young lady?”

He smiled encouragingly at Miss Forbes.

“I could not!” growled Winthrop.  “The man wasn’t hurt, the policeman will tell you so.  It is not of the least public interest.”

With a deprecatory shrug, the young man smiled knowingly.

“Well, mebbe not the lady’s name,” he granted, “but the name of the other gentleman who was with you, when the accident occurred.”  His black, rat-like eyes snapped.  “I think his name would be of public interest.”

To gain time Winthrop stepped into the driver’s seat.  He looked at Mr. Schwab steadily.

“There was no other gentleman,” he said.  “Do you mean my chauffeur?” Mr. Schwab gave an appreciative chuckle.

“No, I don’t mean your chauffeur,” he mimicked.  “I mean,” he declared theatrically in his best police-court manner, “the man who to-day is hoping to beat Tammany, Ernest Peabody!”