A hand holding an automatic edged into sight round the corner of the garage door—­and the pistol sang like a locust.  Instantly one of the detectives fired.  The pistol clattered to the walk as the hand disappeared.  One shot at least had told for law and order.

“Anybody hurt yet?” P. Sybarite asked.

“Not that I know anythin’ about.”

“But what do you suppose makes ’em keep that door open?  You’d think—­”

“The way I figure it,” the chauffeur cut in, “Red’s plannin’ to make his getaway in a car.  He’s just waitin’ till the goin’ looks good, and then he’ll sail outa there like a streak of greased lightnin’.  Yuh wanta be ready to duck, too, ‘cause he’ll come this way, an’ keep guns goin’ to prevent anybody from hinderin’ him.”

“Why this way?  Sixth Avenue’s nearer.”

“Sure it is, but that way he’d have them L pillars to duck, to say nothin’ of the crowd, and no tellin’ but what a surface-car might block him.  Yuh watch an’ see ’f I ain’t doped it out right.”

From the dark interior of the besieged garage another automatic fluttered briskly; across the street a window fell in....

“Look here—­you come with me,” said P. Sybarite suddenly, plucking his chauffeur by the sleeve.

With a reluctant backward glance, the man suffered himself to be drawn apart from the crowd.

“How much nerve have you got?” the little Irishman demanded.

“Who—­me?  Why?”

“I want to stop this getaway—­”

“Not for mine, friend.”  The chauffeur laughed scornfully.  “I ain’t lost no Red November!”

“Will a thousand dollars make you change your mind?”

The chauffeur’s eyes narrowed.

“Whatcha drivin’ at?  Me—­why—­I’d take a lotta chances for a thousand.”

“Help me—­do as I say—­and it’s yours.”

“Lead me to the coin,” was the prompt decision.

“Here, then!”

P. Sybarite delved hastily into a trousers pocket and produced a handful of bills of large denominations.

“There’s a five hundred dollar bill to start with,” he rattled, stripping off the first that fell to his fingers—­“and here’s a hundred—­no, here’s another five instead.”

“In the mitt,” the chauffeur stipulated simply, extending his palm.  “Either you’re crazy or I am—­but in the mitt, friend, and I’ll run the car right into that garage, ’f you say so.”

“Nothing so foolish as that.”  P. Sybarite handed over the two bills and put away the rest of his wealth.  “Just jump into that car and be ready to swing across the street and block ’em as they come.”

“You’re on!” agreed the chauffeur with emotion—­carefully putting his money away.

“And a thousand more”—­his courage wrung this tribute from P. Sybarite’s admiration—­“if you’re hurt—­”

“You’re on there, too—­and don’t think for a minute I’ll letcha fergit, neither.”

The chauffeur turned to his car, jumped into the driver’s seat, and advanced the spark.  The purr of the motor deepened to a leonine growl.