Meanwhile, the Café des Exiles was erupting antic shapes, waiters,
customers, Dupont, Thérèse. The quiet hour was made hideous by their yells.

"_Stop thief!" "À la voleuse!" "L'arrêtez!" "À la voleuse!" "Stop thief!_"

An entirely superfluous bobby weathered the corner, discovered Sofia in
flight across the street, came about, and shaped a diagonal course to cut
across her bows. She saw him coming and stopped short with a gasp of
dismay. Simultaneously the Rolls-Royce slid smoothly in between them and
Karslake hopped down. Sofia uttered a small cry, more of surprise than
fright, and hung back, trying to free the arm by which he was trying to
guide her to the open door.

"It's our only chance," he warned her, coolly. "We're between two fires.
Better not delay!"

She yielded and tumbled in. Karslake followed and slammed the door. The car
shot away and rounded into the cross street before the bobby could collect
himself enough to look at its license plate. He made after it, but when he
had reached the corner it had turned another and was lost.

At the second turning Karslake looked round from the window with a
reassuring laugh, and settled back beside Sofia.

"So that ends that!"

She stared wide-eyed through the shadows. She knew him now, she was not in
the least afraid, but she was confused beyond measure.

"Why--why--" she faltered--"what--who are you and where are you taking me?"