One word—­“murder”—­stuck in his memory; it kept repeating itself.  He remembered Jimmy Knight’s sentence directed at Lorelei.  “D’you want to go to court?”

Lorelei was his wife, Bob reflected, dizzily—­quite clearly he remembered marrying her.  It was plainly as necessary, therefore, to shield her as to remove Jarvis Hammon and smother this accident.  Or was it an accident, after all?  Perhaps Lilas had shot the fellow.  If that were true, then she ought to be arrested—­ certainly.  But somebody had said, “She’ll saddle it onto Lorelei to save herself.”  After all, it couldn’t be murder, for hadn’t Hammon said that he shot himself?  Bob decided there could be no such need for haste, now that the truth was known, so he slackened his zigzag progress.  If nobody had been murdered, why hire a cab at all?  Then he began to run again, remembering that Hammon needed a doctor.  This was a fine wedding night, indeed.  For once in his life he wished himself sober.

Broadway, that pulsating artery of New York life, was still flowing a thin stream of traffic despite the lateness of the hour, and Bob’s mind had become clearer by the time he reached it.

He signaled to the first horse-drawn vehicle that passed, but it was occupied, and the driver paid no heed to his call.  Several taxi-cabs whirled past, both north and south bound, but he knew better than to hire them, so he waited as patiently as he could while those billows of intoxication continued to ebb and flow through his brain, robbing him of that careful judgment which he fought to retain.

At last the clop-clop-clop of a horse’s hoofs sounded close by, and an unshaven man in an ancient high hat steered a four-wheeler to the curb, barking:  “Keb, keb!”

Bob lurched forward and laid a hand upon the driver’s knee.  “Very man I’m lookin’ for.”  The hiccup that followed was by no means intentional.

“Yes, sir.  Where to, sir?”

But Bob shook his head vigorously and waved a comprehensive gesture toward the west.  “Got a party of my own back yonder—­ everybody soused but me—­understand?  I’m the only sober one, so I’m goin’ to drive ’em home, see?  How much?”

“How much for what?” demanded the cabman.

“For the cab—­one hour.  I’ll bring it back.”

“Nothin’ doin’!  I’ll take you where you want to go.”

“Sorry.  Mus’ have my little joke, no matter what it costs.  Next cabby’ll do it.”

Nothing except Bob’s personal appearance prevented the driver from whipping up without more ado, but a shiny top-hat, an immaculate expanse of shirt-bosom, and silken waistcoat, especially when linked with a spend-thrift air, command respect from the cab-driving brotherhood.  The night was old—­and these jokers sometimes pay well, the man reflected.

“How’d I know you’d bring it back?” he inquired.

“Matter of honor with me.  I’ll be back in no time.  Will ten dollars be right?”