"Run, you simp, run! Make your getaway with Rose while the going's good! I can take care of myself."
At the same time a hand descended on Alan's shoulder, and he found himself in the grasp of a pugnaciously inclined citizen who reaped unhappy reward for his temerity, being tripped and thrown as Alan realized that Barcus was right—that his first duty was to Rose.
Whereupon he swung about, butted his way through a group of three confused and strong-lunged persons, and in three bounds gained the running-board of the waiting motor-car, in whose body Rose was standing as if half-minded to alight.
"Clear out!" he told the chauffeur violently. "Make yourself scarce!"
As the man hesitated, Alan threw him bodily from the car, dropped into his seat, and threw in the clutch. They were a hundred feet distant from the scene of the accident before Alan was fairly settled in his place. Alan shook himself together and drew upon the lore of a master of motoring. The car shot through that street like a hunted shadow.
As he grew more and more calm, he congratulated himself on the car. If not capable of a racing pace, it would serve his ends as speedily as was consistent with reasonable care for the life of the woman he loved.
