"Where are your wits?" demanded P. Sybarite in exasperation. "This
isn't a precinct raid! You ought to know that. This is Whitman, going
over everybody's head. Anyhow, it can't be worse for you than it
is--and my way gives you a fighting chance to get off."

"Guess you 're right," mumbled the other thickly, shrugging out of his
coat and surrendering it.

Several white jackets hung from hooks on the wall near the door.
Seizing one of these, the policeman had it on in a jiffy.

"Now what'll I do?" he pursued, as P. Sybarite, the blue coat over his
arm, grabbed the police cap and started for the door.

"Do? How do I know? Use your own head for a while. Pull yourself
together--cut some bread--do something useful--make a noise like a
steward--"

With this the little man shot out into the hallway, slammed the door
behind him, and darted into the adjoining bedroom. Once there, he lost
no time changing coats--not forgetting to shift his money as
well--cocked the cap jauntily on one side of his head (a bit too big,
it fitted better that way, anyhow) buttoned up, and left the room on
the run. For by this time the front doors had fallen in and the upper
floor was echoing with deep, excited voices and heavy, hurrying
footsteps. In another moment or so they would be drawing the basement
for fugitives.

He had planned--vaguely, inconclusively--to leave by the area door