Kismet!...
Then suddenly he quickened to the circumstances: the thing was finished, November stunned and helpless at his feet, November's driver making off, the crowd swarming round, the police an imminent menace.
Now if Marian were in the body of the town-car, as he believed, he must get her out of it and away before the police and detectives could overtake and apprehend them both.
Instant action, inspired audacity, a little luck—and the thing might possibly be accomplished.
His chauffeur was crawling ignominiously out from beneath the touring car—his countenance livid with grime and the pallor of fright. Meeting the eye of his employer, he grinned a sheepish grin.
P. Sybarite seized him by the arm.
"Are you hurt?"
"Not ten cents' worth—much less a thousand dollars! No such luck!"
His mouth to the fellow's ear, P. Sybarite whispered hoarsely and hurriedly:
"Unhook your license number—throw it in the car—get ready to move on the word—lady in that car—kidnapped—I love her—d'you understand?—we must get her away—another thousand in this for you—"