He waved his free hand broadly in the direction taken by November's driver.
Abruptly and without protest the patrolman released him, butted his way through the crowd, and disappeared.
An arm boldly about Marian's waist, P. Sybarite helped her to the step of the touring car—and blessed that prince among chauffeurs, who was up and ready in his seat!
But now again he must be hindered: a plain-clothes man dropped a heavy hand upon his shoulder and screwed the muzzle of a revolver into P. Sybarite's ear.
"Under arrest!" he blatted wildly. "Carrying fire-arms! Causing a crowd to collect—!"
"All right—all right!" P. Sybarite told him roughly. "I admit it. I'm not resisting, am I? Take that gun out of my ear and help me get this lady into the car before she's trampled and torn to pieces by these staring fools!"
Stupidly enough, the man comprehended some part of his admonishment. Staring blankly from the little man to the girl, he pocketed his weapon and, grasping Marian's arm, assisted her into the touring car.
"Thanks!" cried P. Sybarite, jumping up on the running-board. "You're most amiable, my friend!"
And with the heel of his open hand he struck the man forcibly upon the chest, so that he reeled back, tripped over the hapchance foot of an innocent by-stander, and went sprawling and blaspheming upon his back.
Somebody laughed hysterically.