“They may do that at the station house, but I am obliged to arrest you and take you there. Come, the longer you parley the more time you are losing! I’ll just jump up with your driver so we can lose no time.”
Noel whispered excitedly:
“Suppose we cut and run while he is getting on the box? We could easily get a cab.”
“Done!” And they slipped out unperceived on either side, to the vast amusement of a good-natured crowd that had collected on the corner.
Unfortunately the policeman caught the snickering at his expense, just as the coupé drove off, and turned his red head curiously back, at once catching sight of the fugitives.
“Stop!” he shouted angrily, springing down to follow.
A hot chase ensued, but as the sympathies of the spectators were all with the handsome young men, the poor policeman got no assistance, and presently he was outdistanced by the agile sprinters, and gave up the pursuit just a minute too soon, for, in turning a corner at breakneck speed, Frank Laurier collided with a bicycle and went down like a rock.
“Good heavens!” cried Ernest Noel, stopping short in horror above the wreck, the shattered wheel, and the two prostrate men.
They had both sustained injuries, but the rider directly got up on his feet, and declared himself all right save for a few bruises.
Not so with Frank Laurier, who lay like one dead before them, with his fair, handsome face upturned to the light, his eyes closed, and a dark bruise on the side of his temple, showing where he had struck it in falling against the curbstone. All efforts to revive him failed, and a physician who was called declared it was a case of concussion of the brain and that the patient must be removed at once to Bellevue Hospital.