Stuyvie was suddenly aware that some one was assisting him into his coat, and that several men were hustling him toward the door. "Get out,--quick!" said one, who turned out to be the agitated Mr. Spangler. "Before he gets up. He is a terrible man." By this time they were in the vestibule. "I will not tell him who you are," Mr. Spangler was saying. "I will give you another name,--Jones or anything. He must never know who you are." "What's the difference?" chattered Stuyvie. "He's--he's dead, isn't he?" CHAPTER XVI SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND IT was raining hard. Stuyvesant, thoroughly alarmed and not at all elated by his astonishing conquest, halted in dismay. The pelting torrent swept up against the side of the canvas awning that extended to the street; the thick matting on the sidewalk was almost afloat. Headlights of automobiles drawn up to the curb blazed dimly through the screen of water. He peered out beyond the narrow opening left for pedestrians and groaned. "Taxi!" he frantically shouted to the doorman. Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He started as if a gun had gone off at his back. It was all up! For once the police were on the spot when--A voice was shouting: "By thunder, I didn't think it was in you!" He whirled to face, not the expected bluecoat, but the sallow detective. "My God, how you startled me!" "I'd have bet my last dollar you hadn't the nerve to--ahem! I--I--Say, take a tip from me. Beat it! Don't hang around here waitin' for that girl. That guy in there is beginning to see straight again, and if he was to bust out here and find you--Well, it would be something awful!" "Get me a taxi, you infernal idiot!" roared the conqueror in flight, addressing the starter. "Have one here in five minutes, sir," began the taxi starter, grabbing up the telephone. "Five minutes?" gasped Stuyvie, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "Oh, Lord! Tell one of those chauffeurs out there I'll give him ten dollars to run me to the Grand Central Station. Hurry up!" "The Grand Central?" exclaimed the detective. "Great Scott, man, you don't have to beat it clear out of town, you know. What are you going to the Station for?" "For a taxi, you damn' fool," shouted Stuyvie. "Say, who was that man in there?" "Didn't you know him?" "Never saw him in my life before,--the blighter. Who is he?" The detective stared. He opened his mouth to reply, and as suddenly closed it. He, too, knew on which side his bread was precariously buttered. "I don't know," he said. "Well, the papers will give his name in the morning,--and mine, too, curse them," chattered Stuyvie. "Don't you think it," said the other promptly. "There won't be a word about it, take it from me. That guy,--whoever he is,--ain't going to have the newspapers say he was knocked down by a pinhead like you."