“He’s a blackmailer! I hope we have heard the last of him!” she cried passionately.
Soon she was to know that they had not!
Since the affair at the door of the opera stage and the theft of Florence’s Boston bag, the ever thoughtful Solomon had secured a special taxi driver, a man of skill and courage, to carry Florence and Petite Jeanne wherever they must go. But until now nothing further had happened.
“And to-night is the night!” She poked her pink toes out from the blanket in which they were wrapped and murmured: “And to-night, you feet, you must do what Florence calls your durndest!” She laughed a merry laugh.
At four their special cabman honked in the street below. They would go to the theatre. There in her dressing room Petite Jeanne would rest, partake of a belated tea, and await the zero hour.
She was thinking of this in a dreamy way as they sped toward the theatre when, as they paused before a crossing signal, shocking things began to happen.
“Make room!” a gruff voice demanded. A man in a huge overcoat attempted to crowd in beside Florence. She resisted. All her splendid muscles went into play. The taxi driver was not lagging in his part. Swinging the car sharply about, he attempted to dislodge the intruder from the running board. A car coming from the opposite direction struck his hind wheel. His cab spun around, skidded sharply to the right and struck the curb with a crash.
The shock threw the intruder from his place. He went sprawling, struck his head on the street curb and lay there dazed.
In an instant Florence, filled with honest courage and righteous indignation, leaped upon him.
But now a second man, springing from his car, dashed at her. She could hardly cope with both of them. But reinforcements were coming. A crowd was gathering. From this crowd sprang a stout, ruddy faced man. With one deft blow he felled the oncoming assailant and, with apparent satisfaction proceeded to pin him to the pavement.