"Wait!" P. Sybarite interrupted. "Let me get this straight."
Stimulated by this news, his wits comprehended the situation at a glance.
At the side of his chauffeur, he found himself in line with a number of that spontaneous class which at the first hint of sensation springs up from nowhere in the streets of Manhattan. Early as was the hour, they were already quite fifty strong; and every minute brought re-enforcements straggling up from Fifth Avenue.
But the lamp-post—still a mute, insensate recipient of the chauffeur's amorous clasp—marked a boundary beyond which curiosity failed to allure.
Similarly at Sixth Avenue, a rabble was collecting, blocking the roadway and backing up to the Elevated pillars and surface-car tracks—but to a man balking at an invisible line drawn from corner to corner.
Midway, the dark open doorway to November's garage yawned forbiddingly; and in all the space that separated these two gatherings of spectators, there were visible just three human figures: a uniformed patrolman, and two plain-clothes men—the former at a discreet distance, the two latter more boldly stationed and holding revolvers ready for instant employment.
"Fly-cops," the chauffeur named the two in citizen's clothing: "I piped 'em stickin' round while you was inside, an' was wonderin' what they was after, when all of a sudden I sees November duck up from the basement next door to the Monastery, and they tries to jump him. That ain't two minutes ago. November dodges, pulls a gun, and fights 'em off until he can back into the garage—"
A hand holding an automatic edged into sight round the corner of the garage door—and the pistol sang like a locust. Instantly one of the detectives fired. The pistol clattered to the walk as the hand disappeared. One shot at least had told for law and order.
"Anybody hurt yet?" P. Sybarite asked.
"Not that I know anythin' about."