when the raiders turned their attention to the basement, presenting
himself to the crowd in the street in the guise of an officer, and so
make off. But now--with his fingers on the bolts--misgivings assailed
him. He was physically not much like any policeman he had ever seen;
and the blue tunic with its brass buttons was a wretched misfit on his
slight body. He doubted whether his disguise would pass
unchallenged--doubted so strongly that he doubled suddenly to the back
door, flung it open, and threw himself out into the black strangeness
of the night--and at the same time into the arms of two burly
plain-clothes men posted there to forestall precisely such an attempt
at escape.

Strong arms clipping him, he struggled violently for an instant.

"Here!" a voice warned him roughly. "It ain't goin' to do you no
good--"

Another interrupted with an accent of deep disgust, in patent
recognition of his borrowed plumage: "Damned if it ain't a patrolman!"

"Why the hell didn't you say so?" demanded the first as P. Sybarite
fell back, free.

"Didn't--have--time. Here--gimme a leg over this fence, will you?"

"What the devil--!"

"They've got a door through to the next house--getting out that way.
That's what I'm after--to stop 'em. Shut up!" P. Sybarite insisted
savagely--"and give me a leg."