November had ceased firing and was plucking nervously at the slide of his automatic. His driver had jumped down from his seat and was scuttling madly up the street.
In a breath P. Sybarite realised what was the matter: as automatics will, when hot with fast firing, November's had choked on an empty shell.
With a sob of excitement the little man lowered his weapon and flung himself upon the gang leader.
November rose to meet him, reversing his pistol and aiming at P. Sybarite's head a murderous blow. This, however, the little man was alert to dodge. November came bodily into his arms. Grappling, the two reeled and went down, P. Sybarite's fingers closing on the throat of the assassin just as the latter's head struck the pavement with brutal force.
The man shivered, grunted, and lay still.
P. Sybarite disengaged and got up on his feet.
TOGETHER
In a daze, P. Sybarite shook and felt himself all over, unable to credit his escape from that rain of bullets.
But he was apparently unharmed.