"I don't know," he said.
"Well, the papers will give his name in the morning,—and mine, too, curse them," chattered Stuyvie.
"Don't you think it," said the other promptly. "There won't be a word about it, take it from me. That guy,—whoever he is,—ain't going to have the newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like you."
The insult passed unnoticed. Stuyvie was gazing, pop-eyed, at a man who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the canopy, a tall fellow in a dripping raincoat.
The newcomer's eyes were upon him. They were steady, unfriendly eyes. He advanced slowly.
"I sha'n't wait," said Stuyvie, and swiftly passed out into the deluge. No other course was open to him. There was trouble ahead and trouble behind.
Thomas Trotter laughed. The sallow-faced man made a trumpet of his hands and shouted after the departing one:
"Beat it! He's coming!"
The retreating footsteps quickened into a lively clatter. Trotter distinctly heard the sallow-faced man chuckle.
The Marchioness and Jane went home in the big Millidew limousine instead of in a taxi. They left the restaurant soon after the departure of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. The pensive-looking stranger from Scotland Yard came out close upon their heels. He was looking for his American guide.