THE DAY OF DAYS

BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

THE DAY OF DAYSTHE DESTROYING ANGELTHE BANDBOXCYNTHIA-OF-THE-MINUTENO MAN'S LANDTHE FORTUNE HUNTERTHE POOL OF FLAMETHE BRONZE BELLTHE BLACK BAGTHE BRASS BOWLTHE PRIVATE WARTERENCE O'ROURKE

[Illustration: "What I want to say is--will you be my guest at thetheatre tonight?" FRONTISPIECE. ]

THE DAY OF DAYS

_AN EXTRAVAGANZA_

BY

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

AUTHOR OF "THE BRASS BOWL, " "THE BLACK BAG, " "THE BANDBOX, " "THEDESTROYING ANGEL, " ETC. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN

BOSTONLITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1913

_Copyright, 1912, 1913_, BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE. 

_All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreignlanguages, including the Scandinavian. _

Published, February, 1913Reprinted, March, 1913

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. , U. S. A. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I. THE DUB II. INSPIRATION III. THE GLOVE COUNTER IV. A LIKELY STORY V. THE COMIC SPIRIT VI. SPRING TWILIGHT VII. AFTERMATH VIII. WHEELS OF CHANCE IX. THE PLUNGER X. UNDER FIRE XI. BURGLARY UNDER ARMS XII. THE LADY OF THE HOUSE XIII. RESPECTABILITY XIV. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD XV. SUCH STUFF AS PLOTS ARE MADE OF XVI. BEELZEBUB XVII. IN A BALCONYXVIII. THE BROOCH XIX. NEMESIS XX. NOVEMBER XXI. THE SORTIE XXII. TOGETHERXXIII. PERCEVAL UNASHAMED

ILLUSTRATIONS

"What I want to say is--will you be my guest at the theatre tonight?"

"You are the one woman in a thousand who knows enough to look beforeshe shoots!"

Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor. 

He was Red November. 

THE DAY OF DAYS

I

THE DUB

"Smell, " P. Sybarite mused aloud.... 

For an instant he was silent in depression. Then with extraordinaryvehemence he continued crescendo: "Stupid-stagnant-sepulchral-sempiternally-sticky-Smell!"

He paused for both breath and words--pondered with bended head, knitting his brows forbiddingly. 

"Supremely squalid, sinisterly sebaceous, sombrely sociable Smell!" hepursued violently. 

Momentarily his countenance cleared; but his smile was as fugitive asthe favour of princes. 

Vindictively champing the end of a cedar penholder, he groped forexpression: "Stygian ... Sickening ... Surfeiting ... Slovenly ... Sour.... "

He shook his head impatiently and clawed the impregnated atmospherewith a tragic hand. 

"_Stench!_" he perorated in a voice tremulous with emotion. 

Even that comprehensive monosyllable was far from satisfactory. 

"Oh, what's the use?" P. Sybarite despaired. 

Alliteration could no more; his mother-tongue itself seemedpoverty-stricken, his native wit inadequate. With decent meekness heowned himself unfit for the task to which he had set himself. 

"I'm only a dub, " he groaned--"a poor, God-forsaken, prematurely agedand indigent dub!"

For ten interminable years the aspiration to do justice to the Geniusof the Place had smouldered in his humble bosom; to-day for the firsttime he had attempted to formulate a meet apostrophe to that God ofhis Forlorn Destiny; and now he chewed the bitter cud of realisationthat all his eloquence had proved hopelessly poor and lame andhalting. 

Perched on the polished seat of a very tall stool, his slender legsfraternising with its legs in apparently inextricable intimacy; sharpelbows digging into the nicked and ink-stained bed of a counting-housedesk; chin some six inches above the pages of a huge leather-coveredledger, hair rumpled and fretful, mouth doleful, eyes disconsolate--hegloomed... 

On this the eve of his thirty-second birthday and likewise the tenthanniversary of his servitude, the appearance of P. Sybarite waselaborately normal--varying, as it did, but slightly from oneyear's-end to the other. 

His occupation had fitted his head and shoulders with a deceptive butnone the less perennial stoop. His means had endowed him with a singleoutworn suit of ready-made clothing which, shrinking sensitively oneach successive application of the tailor's sizzling goose, had cometo disclose his person with disconcerting candour--sleeves too short, trousers at once too short and too narrow, waistcoat buttons strainingover his chest, coat buttons refusing to recognise a buttonhole savethat at the waist. Circumstances these that added measurably to hisapparent age, lending him the semblance of maturity attained whilestill in the shell of youth. 

The ruddy brown hair thatching his well-modelled head, his sanguinecolouring, friendly blue eyes and mobile lips suggested Irish lineage;and his hands which, though thin and clouded with smears of ink, werestrong and graceful (like the slender feet in his shabby shoes) boreout the suggestion with an added hint of gentle blood. 

But whatever his antecedents, the fact is indisputable that P. Sybarite, just then, was most miserable, and not without cause; forthe Genius of the Place held his soul in Its melancholy bondage. 

The Place was the counting-room in the warehouse of Messrs. Whigham &Wimper, _Hides & Skins_; and the Genius of it was the reek of hidesboth raw and dressed--an effluvium incomparable, a passionateindividualist of an odour, as rich as the imagination of an editor ofSunday supplements, as rare as a reticent author, as friendly as astray puppy. 

For ten endless years the body and soul of P. Sybarite had been thrallto that Smell; for a complete decade he had inhaled it continuouslynine hours each day, six days each week--and had felt lonesome withoutit on every seventh day. 

But to-day all his being was in revolt, bitterly, hopelessly mutinousagainst this evil and overbearing Genius.... 

The warehouse--impregnable lair of the Smell, from which it leeredsmug defiance at the sea-sweet atmosphere of the lower city--occupieda walled-in arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, fronting on Frankfort Street, in that part of Town still known to elder inhabitants as "the Swamp. "Above rumbled the everlasting inter-borough traffic; to the right, onrising ground, were haunts of roaring type-mills grinding an endlessgrist of news; to the left, through a sudden dip and down a longdecline, a world of sober-sided warehouses, degenerating into slums, circumscribed by sleepy South Street; all, this afternoon, warm andlanguorous in the lazy breeze of a sunny April Saturday. 

The counting-room was a cubicle contrived by enclosing a corner of theground-floor with two walls and a ceiling of match-boarding. Into thisconstricted space were huddled two imposing roll-top desks, P. Sybarite's high counter, and the small flat desk of the shippingclerk, with an iron safe, a Remington typewriter, a copy-press, sundrychairs and spittoons, a small gas-heater, and many tottering columnsof dusty letter-files. The window-panes, encrusted with perennialdeposits of Atmosphere, were less transparent than translucent, and solittle the latter that electric bulbs burned all day long whenever theskies were overcast. Also, the windows were fixed and set against theouter air--impregnable to any form of assault less impulsive than astone cast by an irresponsible hand. A door, set craftily in the mostinconvenient spot imaginable, afforded both ventilation and access toan aisle which led tortuously between bales of hides to doors openingupon a waist-high stage, where trucks backed up to receive and todeliver. 

Immured in this retreat, P. Sybarite was very much shut away from alljoy of living--alone with his job (which at present nothing pressed)with Giant Despair and its interlocutor Ennui, and with that blatant, brutish, implacable Smell of Smells.... 

To all of these, abruptly and with ceremony, Mr. George Bross, shipping clerk, introduced himself: a brawny young man inshirt-sleeves, wearing a visorless cap of soiled linen, an apron ofstriped ticking, pencils behind both angular red ears, and a smudge ofmarking-ink together with a broad irritating smile upon a clownishcountenance. 

Although in receipt of a smaller wage than P. Sybarite (who earnedfifteen dollars per week) George squandered fifteen cents onnewspapers every Sunday morning for sheer delight in the illuminated"funny sheets. "

In one hand he held an envelope. 

Draping himself elegantly over Mr. Wimper's desk, George regarded P. Sybarite with an indulgent and compassionate smile and wagged adoggish head at him. From these symptoms inferring that hisfellow-employee was in the throes of a witticism, P. Sybarite cockedan apprehensive eye and tightened his thin-lipped, sensitive mouth. 

"O you--!" said George; and checked to enjoy a rude giggle. 

At this particular moment a mind-reader would have been justified inregarding P. Sybarite with suspicion. But beyond taking the pen frombetween his teeth he didn't move; and he said nothing at all. 

The shipping clerk presently controlled his mirth sufficiently topermit unctuous enunciation of the following cryptic exclamation:

"O you Perceval!"

P. Sybarite turned pale. 

"You little rascal!" continued George, brandishing the envelope. "You've been cunning, you have; but I've found you out at last.... _Per_-ce-val!"

Over the cheeks of P. Sybarite crept a delicate tint of pink. His eyeswavered and fell. He looked, and was, acutely unhappy. 

"You're a sly one, you are, " George gloated--"always signin' your name'P. Sybarite' and pretendin' your maiden monaker was 'Peter'! But nowwe know you! Take off them whiskers--Perceval!"

A really wise mind-reader would have called a policeman, then andthere; for mayhem was the least of the crimes contemplated by P. Sybarite. But restraining himself, he did nothing more thandisentangle his legs, slip down from the tall stool, and approach Mr. Bross with an outstretched hand. 

"If that letter's for me, " he said quietly, "give it here, please. "

"Special d'liv'ry--just come, " announced George, holding the letterhigh, out of easy reach, while he read in exultant accents thetraitorous address: "'Perceval Sybarite, Esquire, Care of Messrs. Whigham and Wimper'! O you Perceval--Esquire!"

"Give me my letter, " P. Sybarite insisted without raising his voice. 

"Gawd knows _I_ don't want it, " protested George. "I got no truck withyour swell friends what know your real name and write to you onper-_fumed_ paper with monograms and everything. "

He held the envelope close to his nose and sniffed in ecstasy until itwas torn rudely from his grasp. 

"Here!" he cried resentfully. "Where's your manners?... Perceval!"

Dumb with impotent rage, P. Sybarite climbed back on his stool, whileGeorge sat down at his desk, lighted a Sweet Caporal (it was afterthree o'clock and both the partners were gone for the day) and with aleer watched the bookkeeper carefully slit the envelope and withdrawits enclosures. 

Ignoring him, P. Sybarite ran his eye through the few lines of notablycareless feminine handwriting:

 MY DEAR PERCEVAL, --

 Mother & I had planned to take some friends to the theatre to-night and bought a box for the Knickerbocker several weeks ago, but now we have decided to go to Mrs. Hadley-Owen's post-Lenten masquerade ball instead, and as none of our friends can use the tickets, I thought possibly you might like them. They say Otis Skinner is _wonderful_. Of course you may not care to sit in a stage box without a dress suit, but perhaps you won't mind. If you do, maybe you know somebody else who could go properly dressed. 

 Your aff'te cousin, MAE ALYS. 

The colour deepened in P. Sybarite's cheeks, and instantaneouspin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes. But again hesaid nothing. And since his eyes were downcast, George was unaware oftheir fitful incandescence. 

Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he rocked back and forth on thehind legs of his chair and crowed in jubilation: "Perceval! O yougreat, big, beautiful Perc'!"

P. Sybarite made a motion as if to tear the note across, hesitated, and reconsidered. Through a long minute he sat thoughtfully examiningthe tickets presented him by his aff'te cousin. 

In his ears rang the hideous tumult of George's joy:

"_Per-ce-val!_"

Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P. Sybaritedipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely in aminute hand:

 MY DEAR MAE ALYS:--

 Every man has his price. You know mine. Pocketing false pride, I accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in a poor relation. And if arrested for appearing in the box without evening clothes, I promise solemnly to brazen it out, pretend that I bought the tickets myself--or stole them--and keep the newspapers ignorant of our kinship. Fear not--trust me--and enjoy the masque as much as I mean to enjoy "Kismet. "

 And if you would do me the greatest of favours--should you ever again find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the further degradation of being known as Perceval. 

 With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered, Remotely yours, P. SYBARITE. 

This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust hispen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red andblack inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and putit away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all theclerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool toblink pensively at Mr. Bross. 

That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response tohis persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror andendeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by meansof a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engaginglynatural and unaffected manner. 

"It's no use, George, " observed P. Sybarite presently. "If you're inearnest in these public-spirited endeavours to--how would you putit?--to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand andgo to soap and water. I know it's painful, but, believe me, it's theonly way. "

George looked up in some surprise. 

"Why, _there_ you are, little Bright Eyes!" he exclaimed with spirit. "I was beginnin' to be afraid this sittin' would pass off without avisit from Uncle George's pet control. Had little Perceval any messagefrom the Other Side th'safternoon?"

"One or two, " assented P. Sybarite gravely. "To begin with, I'm goingto shut up shop in just five minutes; and if you don't want to showyourself on the street looking like a difference of opinion between abull-calf and a fountain pen--"

"Gotcha, " interrupted George, rising and putting away handkerchief andmirror. "I'll drown myself, if you say so. Anythin's better'n lettingyou talk me to death. "

"One thing more. "

Splashing vigorously at the stationary wash-stand, George lookedgloomily over his shoulder, and in sepulchral accents uttered the oneword:

"Shoot!"

"How would you like to go to the theatre to-night?"

George soaped noisily his huge red hands. 

"I'd like it so hard, " he replied, "that I'm already dated up for anevenin' of intellect'al enjoyment. Me and Sammy Holt 'a goin' round toMiner's Eight' Avenoo and bust up the show. You can trail if youwanta, but don't blame me if some big, coarse, two-fisted guy hears mecall you Perceval and picks on you. "

He bent forward over the bowl, and the cubicle echoed with sounds ofsplashing broken by gasps, splutters, and gurgles, until hestraightened up, groped blindly for two yards or so of dark greyroller-towel ornamenting the adjacent wall, buried his face in itshospitable obscurity, and presently emerged to daylight with acountenance bright and shining above his chin, below his eyebrows, andin front of his ears. 

"How's that?" he demanded explosively. "Come off all right--didn'tit?"

P. Sybarite inclined his head to one side and regarded the outcome ofa reform administration. 

"You look almost naked around the nose, " he remarked at length. "Butyou'll do. Don't worry.... When I asked if you'd like to go to thetheatre to-night, I meant it--and I meant a regular show, at aBroadway house. "

"Quit your kiddin', " countered Mr. Bross indulgently. "Come along: Igot an engagement to walk home and save a nickel, and so've you. "

"Wait a minute, " insisted P. Sybarite, without moving. "I'm in earnestabout this. I offer you a seat in a stage-box at the KnickerbockerTheatre to-night, to see Otis Skinner in 'Kismet. '"

George's eyes opened simultaneously with his mouth. 

"Me?" he gasped. "Alone?"

P. Sybarite shook his head. "One of a party of four. "

"Who else?" George demanded with pardonable caution. 

"Miss Prim, Miss Leasing, myself. "

Removing his apron of ticking, the shipping clerk opened a drawer inhis desk, took put a pair of cuffs, and begun to adjust them to thewristbands of his shirt. 

"Since when did you begin to snuff coke?" he enquired with mildcompassion. 

"I'm not joking. " P. Sybarite displayed the tickets. "A friend sent methese. I'll make up the party for to-night as I said, and let you comealong--on one condition. "

"Go to it. "

"You must promise me to quit calling me Perceval, here or any placeelse, to-day and forever!"

George chuckled; paused; frowned; regarded P. Sybarite with narrowsuspicion. 

"And never tell anybody, either, " added the other, in deadly earnest. 

George hesitated. 

"Well, it's your _name_, ain't it?" he grumbled. 

"That's not my fault. I'll be damned if I'll be called Perceval. "

"And what if I keep on?"

"Then I'll make up my theatre party without you--and break your neckinto the bargain, " said P. Sybarite intensely. 

"You?" George laughed derisively. "You break _my_ neck? Can thecomedy, beau. Why, I could eat you alive, Perceval. "

P. Sybarite got down from his stool. His face was almost colourless, but for two bright red spots, the size of quarters, beneath eithercheek-bone. He was half a head shorter than the shipping clerk, andapparently about half as wide; but there was sincerity in his mannerand an ominous snap in the unflinching stare of his blue eyes. 

"Please yourself, " he said quietly. "Only--don't say I didn't warnyou!"

"Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent in his amazement. "What's eatin'you?"

"We're going to settle this question before you leave this warehouse. I won't be called Perceval by you or any other pink-eared crossbetween Balaam's ass and a laughing hyena. "

Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his betterjudgment. 

"You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know what you'regoing to do to stop me, Perce--"

P. Sybarite stepped quickly toward him and George, with a growl, threwout his hands in a manner based upon a somewhat hazy conception of theformulæ of self-defence. To his surprise, the open hand of the smallerman slipped swiftly past what he called his "guard" and placed asmart, stinging slap upon lips open to utter the syllable "val. "

Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the headof P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and ... 

George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes, ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at thereverberations inside it. 

Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant, regarding him with tight-lipped interest. 

"Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did _you_ do that to me?"

"I did, " returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"

"Plenty, thanks, " returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he pickedhimself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop likethe kick of a mule, Per--"

"Cut that!"

"P. S. , I mean, " George amended hastily. "Why didn't you ever tell meyou was Jeffries's sparrin' partner?"

"I'm not and never was, and furthermore I didn't hit you, " replied P. Sybarite. "All I did was to let you fall over my foot and bump yourhead on the floor. You're a clumsy brute, you know, George, and if youtried it another time you _might_ dent that dome of yours. Betteraccept my offer and be friends. "

"Never call you Per--"

"Don't say it!"

"Oh, all right--all right, " George agreed plaintively. "And if Ipromise, I'm in on that theatre party?"

"That's my offer. "

"It's hard, " George sighed regretfully--"damn' hard. But whatever_you_ say goes. I'll keep your secret. "

"Good!" P. Sybarite extended one of his small, delicately modelledhands. "Shake, " said he, smiling wistfully. 

II

INSPIRATION

When they had locked in the Genius of the Place to batten upon itselfuntil seven o'clock Monday morning, P. Sybarite and Mr. Bross, with atleast every outward semblance of complete amity, threaded the roaringcongestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street, boldly breasted theflood tide of homing Brooklynites, won their way through City HallPark, and were presently swinging shoulder to shoulder up the sunnyside of lower Broadway. 

To be precise, the swinging stride was practised only by Mr. Bross; P. Sybarite, instinctively aware that any such mode of locomotion wouldill become one of his inches, contented himself with keeping up--hisgait an apparently effortless, tireless, and comfortable amble, congruent with bowed shoulders, bended head, introspective eyes, andhis aspect in general of patient preoccupation. 

From time to time George, who was maintaining an unnatural and painfulsilence, his mental processes stagnant with wonder and dullresentment, eyed his companion askance, with furtive suspicion. Theirassociation was now one of some seven years' standing; and it seemed agrievous thing that, after posing so long as the patient butt of hisrude humour, P. S. Should have so suddenly turned and proved himselfthe better man--and that not mentally alone. 

"Lis'n--" George interjected of a sudden. 

P. Sybarite started. "Eh?" he enquired blankly. 

"I wanna know where you picked up all that classy footwork. "

"Oh, " returned P. S. , depreciatory, "I used to spar a bit with thefellows when I was a--ah--when I was younger. "

"When you was at _what_?" insisted Bross, declining to be fobbed offwith any such flimsy evasion. 

"When I was at liberty to. "

"Huh! You mean, when you was at college. "

"Please yourself, " said P. Sybarite wearily. 

"Well, you was at college oncet, wasn't you?"

"I was, " P. S. Admitted with reluctance; "but I never graduated. When Iwas twenty-one I had to quit to go to work for Whigham & Wimper. "

"G'wan, " commented the other. "They ain't been in business twenty-fiveyears. "

"I'm only thirty-one. "

"More news for Sweeny. You'll never see forty again. "

"That statement, " said P. Sybarite with some asperity, "is an unciviluntruth dictated by a spirit of gratuitous contentiousness--"

"Good God!" cried Bross in alarm. "I'm wrong and you're right and Iwon't do it again--and forgive me for livin'!"

"With pleasure, " agreed P. Sybarite pleasantly.... 

"It's a funny world, " George resumed in philosophic humour, after atime. "You wouldn't think I could work in the same dump with you sevenyears and only be startin' to find out things about you--like to-day. I always thought your name was Pete--honest. "

"Continue to think so, " P. Sybarite advised briefly. 

"Your people had money, didn't they, oncet?"

"I've been told so, but if true, it only goes to prove there's nothingin the theory of heredity.... "

"I gotcha, " announced Bross, upon prolonged and painful analysis. 

"How?" asked P. Sybarite, who had fallen to thinking of other matters. 

"I mean, I just dropped to your high-sign to mind my own business. Allright, P. S. Far be it from me to wanta pry into your Past. Besides, I'm scared to--never can tell what I'll turn up--like, f'rinstance, Per--"

"Steady!"

"Like that they usta call you when you was innocent, I mean. "

To this P. Sybarite made no response; and George subsided into morosereflections. It irked him sore to remember he had been worsted by themeek little slip of a bookkeeper trotting so quietly at his elbow. 

He was a man of his word, was George Bross; not for anything would hehave gone back on his promise to keep secret that afternoon'stitillating discovery; likewise he was a covetous soul, loath toforfeit the promised treat; withal he was human (after his kind) andsince reprisals were not barred by their understanding, he began thenand there to ponder the same. One way or another, that day'shumiliation must be balanced; else he might never again hold up hishead in the company of gentlemen of spirit. 

But how to compass this desire, frankly puzzled him. It were cowardlyto contemplate knockin' the block off'n P. Sybarite; the disparity oftheir statures forebade; moreover, George entertained a vexatioussuspicion that P. Sybarite's explanation on his recent downfall hadnot been altogether disingenuous; he didn't quite believe it had beendue solely to his own clumsiness and an adventitious foot. 

"That sort of thing don't never _happen_, " George assured himselfprivately. "I was outclassed, all right, all right. What I wanna knowis: where'd he couple up with the ring-wisdom?"

Repeated if covert glances at his companion supplied no clue; P. Sybarite's face remained as uncommunicative as well-to-do relations bymarriage; his shadowy, pale and wistful smile denoted, if anything, only an almost childlike pleasure in anticipation of the evening'spromised amusement. 

Suddenly it was borne in upon the shipping clerk that in the probablearrangement of the proposed party he would be expected to danceattendance upon Miss Violet Prim, leaving P. Sybarite free to devotehimself to Miss Lessing. Whereupon George scowled darkly. 

"P. S. 's got his nerve with him, " he protested privately, "to cop outthe one pippin in the house all for his lonely. It's a wonder hewouldn't slip her a chanct to enjoy herself with summon' her ownage.... 

"Not, " he admitted ruefully, "that I'd find it healthy to pull anyrough stuff with Vi lookin' on. I don't even like to think of myselflampin' any other skirt while Violet's got _her_ wicks trimmed andburnin' bright. "

Then he made an end to envy for the time being, and turned hisattention to more pressing concerns; but though he pondered with allhis might and main, it seemed impossible to excogitate any way tosquare his account with P. Sybarite. And when, at Thirty-eighthStreet, the latter made an excuse to part with George, instead ofgoing home in his company, the shipping clerk was too thoroughlydisgusted to question the subterfuge. He was, indeed, a bit relieved;the temporary dissociation promised just so much more time forsolitary conspiracy. 

Turning west, he was presently prompted by that arch-comedian Destiny(disguised as Thirst) to drop into Clancey's for a shell of beer. 

Now in Clancey's George found a crumpled copy of the _Evening Journal_almost afloat on the high-tide of the dregs-drenched bar. Rescuing thesheet, he smoothed it out, examined (grinning) its daily meed ofcomics, read every word on the "Sports Page, " ploughed through theweekly vaudeville charts, scanned the advertisements, and at lengthreviewed the news columns with a listless eye. 

It may have been the stimulation of his drink, but it was probablynothing more nor less than jealousy that sparked his sluggishimagination as he contemplated a two-column reproduction in coarsehalf-tone of a photograph entitled "Marian Blessington. " Slowly thelight dawned upon mental darkness; slowly his grin broadened andbecame fixed--even as his great scheme for the confusion andconfounding of P. Sybarite took shape and matured. 

He left Clancey's presently, stepping high, with a mind elate;foretasting victory; convinced that he harboured within him themakings of a devil of a fellow, all the essential qualifications of(not to put _too_ fine a point upon it) a regular wag.... 

III

THE GLOVE COUNTER

With a feeling of some guilt, becoming in one who stoops to unworthyartifice, P. Sybarite walked slowly on up Broadway a little way, thendoubled on his trail, going softly until a swift and stealthy surveywestward from the corner of Thirty-eighth Street assured him thatGeorge was not skulking thereabouts to spy upon him. Then mending hispace, he held briskly on toward the shopping district. 

From afar the clock recently restored to its coign high above unlovelyGreeley Square warned him that his hour was fleeting: in twentyminutes it would be six o'clock; at six, sharp, Blessington's wouldclose its doors. Distressed, he scurried on, crossed Thirty-fourthStreet, aimed himself courageously for the wide entrance of thedepartment store, battled manfully through the retreating army offeminine shoppers--and gained the glove counter with a good fifteenminutes to spare. 

And there he halted, confused and blushing in recognition ofcircumstances as unpropitious as unforeseen. 

These consisted in three girls behind the counter and one customerbefore it; the latter commanding the attention and services of a fairyoung woman with a pleasant manner; while of the two disengagedsaleswomen, one bold, disdainful brunette was preoccupied with herback hair and prepared mutinously to ignore anything remotelyresembling a belated customer whose demands might busy her beyond theclosing hour, and the other had a merry eye and a receptive smile forthe hesitant little man with the funny clothes and the quaint pinkface of embarrassment. In most abject consternation, P. Sybariteturned and fled. 

Weathering the end of the glove counter and shaping a course throughthe aisle that paralleled it, he found himself in a channel ofhorrors, threatened on one side by a display of most intimatelingerie, belaced and beribboned distractingly, on the other by a longrank of slender and gracious (if stolid) feminine limbs, one and allneatly amputated above their bended knees and bedight in silkenhosiery to shame the rainbow; while to right and left, behind theseimpudent revelations, lurked sirens with shameless eyes and mouths ofscarlet mockery. 

A cold sweat damped the forehead of P. Sybarite. Inconsistently, hisface flamed. He stared fixedly dead ahead and tore through that aislelike a delicate-minded jack-rabbit. He thought giggles were audible inhis wake; and ere he could escape found his way barred by Authorityand Dignity in one wonderfully frock-coated person. 

"You were looking for something?" demanded this menace incarnate, inan awful voice accompanied by a terrible gesture. 

P. Sybarite brought up standing, his nose six inches from and his eyesheld in fascination to the imitation pearl scarf-pin in the beautifulcravat affected by his interlocutor. 

"Gloves--!" he gasped guiltily. 

"This way, if you please. "

With this, Dignity and Authority clamped an inexorable hand about hisupper arm, swung him round, and piloted him gently but ruthlessly backthe way he had come, back to the glove counter, where he was planteddirectly in front of the dashing, dark saleslady with absorbing backhair and the manner of remote hauteur. 

"Miss Brady, this gentleman wants to see some gloves. "

The eyes of Miss Brady flashed ominously; as plain as print, theysaid: "Does, does he? Well, leave him to _me_!"

Aloud, she murmured from an incalculable distance: "Oh, ve-ry well!"

A moment later, looking over the customer's head, she added icily:"What kind?"

The floor-walker retired, leaving P. Sybarite a free agent but nonethe less haunted by a feeling that a suspicious eye was being kept onthe small of his back. He stammered something quite inarticulate. 

The brune goddess shaped ironic lips:

"Chauffeurs', I presoom?"

A measure of self-possession--akin to the deadly coolness of thecornered rat--returned to the badgered little man. 

"No, " he said evenly--"ladies', if you please. "

Scornfully Miss Brady impaled the back of her head with a lead pencil. 

"Other end of the counter, please, " she announced. "I don't handleladies' gloves!"

"I'm sure of that, " returned P. Sybarite meekly; left her standing;and presented himself for the inspection of the fair young woman withthe pleasant manner, who was now free of her late customer. 

She recognised him with surprise, but none the less with a friendlysmile. 

"Why, Mr. Sybarite--!"

In his hearing, her voice was rarest music. He gulped; stammered "MissLessing!" and was stricken dumb by perception of his effrontery. 

"Can I do anything for you?"

He breathed in panic: "Gloves--"

"For a lady, Mr. Sybarite?"

He nodded as expressively as any automaton. 

"What kind?"

"I--I don't know. "

"For day or evening wear?"

He wagged a dismal head: "I don't know. "

Amusement touched her eyes and lips so charmingly that he thought ofthe sea at dawn, rimpled by the morning breeze, gay with the laughterof young sunlight. 

"Surely you must!" she insisted. 

"No, " he contended in stubborn melancholy. 

"Oh, I see. You wish to make a present--?"

"I--ah--suppose so, " he admitted under pressure--"yes. "

"Evening gloves are always acceptable. Does she go often to thetheatre?"

"I--don't know. "

The least suspicion of perplexed frown knitted the eyebrows of MissLessing. 

"Well ... Is she old or young?"

"I--ah--couldn't say. "

"Mr. Sybarite!" said the young woman with decision. 

He fixed an apprehensive gaze to hers--which inclined to disapproval, if with reservations. 

"Yes, Miss Lessing?"

"Do you really want to buy gloves?"

"No-o.... "

"Then what under the sun _do_ you want?"

He noticed suddenly that, however impatient her tone, her eyes werestill kindly. Eyes of luminous hazel brown they were, wide open andclear beneath dark and delicate brows; eyes that assorted oddly withher hair of pale, dull gold, rendering her prettiness both individualand distinctive. 

Somehow he found himself more at ease. 

"Please, " he begged humbly, "show me some gloves--any kind--it doesn'tmatter--and pretend you believe I want to buy 'em. I don't really. I--I only want--ah--word with you before you go home. "

If this were impertinence, the girl elected quickly not to resent it. She turned to the shelves behind her, took down a box or two, andopened them for his inspection. 

"These are very nice, " she suggested quietly. 

"I think so, too. " He grinned uneasily. "What I want to say is--willyou be my guest at the theatre to-night?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, " she said, replacing the gloves. 

"With Miss Prim and George Bross, " he amended hastily. "Somebody--afriend--sent me a box for 'Kismet. ' I thought--possibly--you mightcare to go. It--it would give me great pleasure. "

Miss Lessing held up another pair of gloves. 

"These are three-fifty-nine, " she said absently. "Why did you comehere to ask me?"

"I--I was afraid you might make some other engagement for theevening. "

He couldn't have served his cause more handsomely than by utteringjust that transparent evasion. In a thought she understood: at theirboarding-house he could have found no ready opportunity to ask hersave in the presence of others; and he was desperately afraid of arefusal. 

After all, he had reason to be: they were only table acquaintances ofa few weeks' standing. It was most presumptuous of him to dream thatshe would accept.... 

On the other hand, he was (she considered gravely) a decent, manlylittle body, and had shown her more civility and deference than allthe rest of the boarding-house and shop people put together. And sherather liked him and was reluctant to hurt his feelings; for she knewinstinctively he was very sensitive. 

Her eyes and lips softened winningly. 

"It's so good of you to think of me, " she said. 

"You mean--you--you will come?" he cried, transported. 

"I shall be very glad. "

"That's--that's awf'ly kind of you, " he said huskily. "Now, do pleasefind some way to get rid of me. "

Smiling quietly, the girl recovered the glove boxes. 

"I'm afraid we haven't what you want in stock, " she said in a voicenot loud but clear enough to carry to the ears of her inquisitiveco-labourers. "We're expecting a fresh shipment in next week--if youcould stop in then.... "

"Thank you very much, " said P. Sybarite with uncalled-for emotion. 

He backed away awkwardly, spoiled the effect altogether by lifting hishat, wheeled and broke for the doors.... 

IV

A LIKELY STORY

From the squalour, the heat, dirt and turmoil of Eighth Avenue, P. Sybarite turned west on Thirty-eighth Street to seek hisboarding-house. 

This establishment--between which and the Cave of the Smell hisexistence alternated with the monotony of a pendulum--was situatedmidway on the block on the north side of the street. It boasted afront yard fenced off from the sidewalk with a rusty railing: a plotof arid earth scantily tufted with grass, suggesting that stage ofbaldness which finally precedes complete nudity. Behind this, themoat-like area was spanned to the front door by a ragged stoop ofbrownstone. The four-story facade was of brick whose pristine coat offair white paint had aged to a dry and flaking crust, lending thehouse an appearance distinctly eczematous. 

The sun of April, declining, threw down the street a slant of kindlylight to mitigate its homeliness. In this ethereal evanescence thehouse Romance took the air upon the stoop. 

George Bross was eighty-five per-centum of the house Romance. Theremainder was Miss Violet Prim. Mr. Bross sat a step or two below MissPrim, his knees adjacent to his chin, his face, upturned to hischarmer, wreathed in a fond and fatuous smile. From her higher plane, she smiled in like wise down upon him. She seemed in the eyes of herlover unusually fair--and was: Saturday was her day for seemingunusually fair; by the following Thursday there would begin to be abarely perceptible shadow round the roots of her golden hair.... 

She was a spirited and abundant creature, hopelessly healthy beneaththe coat of paint, powder and peroxide with which she armoured herselfagainst the battle of Life. Normally good-looking in ordinarydaylight, she was a radiant beauty across footlights. Her eyes werebright even at such times as belladonna lacked in them; her nosepretty and pert; her mouth, open for laughter (as it usually was), disclosed twin rows of sound, white, home-made teeth. Her active youngperson was modelled on generous lines and, as a rule, clothed in amanner which, if inexpensive, detracted nothing from her conspicuoussightliness. She was fond of adorning her pretty, sturdy shoulders, aswell as her fetching and shapely, if plump, ankles, withsemi-transparent things--and she was quite as fond of having themadmired. 

P. Sybarite, approaching the gate, delicately averted his eyes.... 

At that moment, George was announcing in an undertone: "Here's thelollop now. "

"You are certainly one observin' young gent, " remarked Miss Prim inaccents of envious admiration. 

Ignoring the challenge, Bross pondered hastily. "Think I better springit on him now?" he enquired in doubt. 

"My Gawd, no!" protested the lady in alarm. "I'd spoil the plant, sure. I'd _love_ to watch you feed it to him, but Heaven knows I'dnever be able to hold in without bustin'. "

"You think he'll swallow it, all right?"

"That simp?" cried Miss Prim in open derision. "Why, he'll eat it_alive_!"

P. Sybarite walked into the front yard, and the chorus lady began tocrow with delight, welcoming him with wild wavings of a pretty, powdered forearm. 

"Well, _look_ who's here! 'Tis old George W. Postscript--as I live!Hitherwards, little one: I wouldst speech myself to thee. "

Smiling, P. Sybarite approached the pair. He liked Miss Prim for herunaffected high spirits, and because he was never in the least ill atease with her. 

"Well?" he asked pleasantly, blinking up at the lady from the foot ofthe steps. "What is thy will, O Breaker of Hearts?"

"That'll be about all for yours, " announced Violet reprovingly. "Youhadn't oughta carry on like that--at your age, too! Not that _I_mind--I rather like it; but what'd your family say if they knew youwas stuck on an actress?"

"'Love blows as the wind blows, '" P. Sybarite quoted gently. "Howshall I hide the fact of my infatuation? If my family cast me off, sobe it!"

"I told you, behave! Next thing you know, George will be bitin' thefence.... What's all this about you givin' a box party at theKnickerbocker to-night?"

"It's a fact, " affirmed P. Sybarite. "Only I had counted on thepleasure of inviting you myself, " he added with a patient glance atGeorge. 

"Never mind about that, " interposed the lady. "I'm just as tickled todeath, and I love you a lot more'n I do George, anyway. So _that's_all right. Only I was afraid for a while he was connin' me. "

"You feel better now?"

Violet placed a theatrical hand above her heart. "Such a relief!" shedeclared intensely--"you'll never know!" Then she jumped up andwheeled about to the door with petticoats professionally a-swirl. "Well, if I'm goin' to do a stagger in society to-night, it's me to godoll myself up to the nines. So long!"

"Hold on!" George cried in alarm. "You ain't goin' to go dec--decol--lowneck and all that? Cut it, kid: me and P. S. Ain't got no dress soots, yunno. "

"Don't fret, " returned Violet from the doorway. "I know how to prettymyself for my comp'ny, all right. Besides, you'll be at the back ofthe box and nobody'll know you exist. Me and Molly Leasing'll get allthe yearnin' stares. "

She disappeared by way of the vestibule. George shook a head heavywith forebodings. 

"Class to that kid, all right, " he observed. "Some stepper, take itfrom me. Anyway, I'm glad it's a box: then I can hide under a chair. Iain't got nothin' to go in but these hand-me-downs. "

"You'll be all right, " said P. Sybarite hastily. 

"Well, I won't feel lonely if you don't dress up like a horse. Whatare you going to wear, anyway?"

"A shave, a clean collar, and what I stand in. They're all I have. "

"Then you got nothin' on me. What's your rush?"--as P. Sybarite wouldhave passed on. "Wait a shake. I wanna talk to you. Sit down and havea cig. "

There was a hint of serious intention in the manner of the shippingclerk to induce P. Sybarite, after the hesitation of an instant, toaccede to his request. Squatting down upon the steps, he accepted acigarette, lighted it, inhaled deeply. 

"Well?"

"I dunno how to break it to you, " Bross faltered dubiously. "Youbetter brace yourself to lean up against the biggest disappointmentever. "

P. Sybarite regarded him with sharp distrust. "You interest mestrangely, George.... But perhaps you're no more addled than usual. Consider me gently prepared against the worst--and get it off yourchest. "

"Well, " said George regretfully, "I just wanna put you next to thefacts before you ask her. Miss Lessing ain't goin' to go with usto-night. "

P. Sybarite looked startled and grieved. 

"No?" he exclaimed. 

George wagged his head mournfully. "It's a shame. I know you countedon it, but I guess you'll have to get summonelse. "

"I'm afraid I don't understand. How do you know Miss Lessing won't go?Did she tell you so?"

"Not what you might call exactly, but she won't all right, " Georgereturned with confidence. "There ain't one chance in a hundred I'm inwrong. "

"In wrong? How?"

"About her bein' who she is. "

P. Sybarite subjected the open, naïf countenance of the shipping clerkto a prolonged and doubting scrutiny. 

"No, I ain't crazy in the head, neither, " George asseverated with someheat. "I suspicioned somethin' was queer about that girl right along, but now I _know_ it. "

"Explain yourself. "

"Ah, it ain't nothin' against her! You don't have to scorch yourcollar. _She's_ all right. Only--she 's in bad. I don't s'pose youseen the evenin' paper?"

"No. "

"Well, I picked up the _Joinal_ down to Clancey's--this is it. " Withan effective flourish, George drew the sheet from his coat pocket andunfolded its still damp and pungent pages. "And soon's I seen that, "he added, indicating a smudged halftone, "I begun to wise up to thatlittle girl. It's sure some shame about her, all right, all right. "

Taking the paper, P. Sybarite examined with perplexity a portraitlabelled "Marian Blessington. " Whatever its original aspect, thecoarse mesh of the reproducing process had blurred it to a vaguepresentment of the head and shoulders of almost any young woman withfair hair and regular features: only a certain, almost indefinableindividuality in the pose of the head remotely suggested MollyLessing. 

In a further endeavour to fathom his meaning, the little bookkeeperconned carefully the legend attached to the putative likeness:

 MARIAN BLESSINGTON

 only daughter of the late Nathaniel Blessington, millionaire founder of the great Blessington chain of department stores. Although much sought after on account of the immense property into control of which she is to come on her twenty-fifth birthday, Miss Blessington contrived to escape matrimonial entanglement until last January, when Brian Shaynon, her guardian and executor of the Blessington estate, gave out the announcement of her engagement to his son, Bayard Shaynon. This engagement was whispered to be distasteful to the young woman, who is noted for her independent and spirited nature; and it is now persistently being rumoured that she had demonstrated her disapproval by disappearing mysteriously from the knowledge of her guardian. It is said that nothing has been known of her whereabouts since about the 1st of March, when she left her home in the Shaynon mansion on Fifth Avenue, ostensibly for a shopping tour. This was flatly contradicted this morning by Brian Shaynon, who in an interview with a reporter for the EVENING JOURNAL declared that his ward sailed for Europe February 28th on the _Mauretania_, and has since been in constant communication with her betrothed and his family. He also denied having employed detectives to locate his ward. The sailing list of the _Mauretania_ fails to give the name of Miss Blessington on the date named by Mr. Shaynon. 

Refolding the paper, P. Sybarite returned it without comment. 

"Well?" George demanded anxiously. 

"Well?"

"Ain't you hep yet?" George betrayed some little exasperation inaddition to his disappointment. 

"Hep?" P. Sybarite iterated wonderingly. 

"Hep's the word, " George affirmed: "John W. Hep, of the well-knownfamily of that name--very closely related to the Jeremiah Wises. Yunnowho I mean, don't you?"

"Sorry, " said P. Sybarite sadly: "I'm not even distinctly connectedwith either family. "

"You mean you don't make me?"

"God forestalled me there, " protested P. Sybarite piously. "Inscrutable!"

Impatiently brushing aside this incoherent observation, George slappedthe folded paper resoundingly in the palm of his hand. 

"Then this here don't mean nothin' to you?"

"To me--nothing, as you say. "

"You ain't dropped to the resemblance between Molly Lessing and MarianBlessington?"

"Between Miss Lessing and _that_ portrait?" asked P. Sybaritescornfully. 

"Why, they're dead ringers for each other. Any one what can't seethat's blind. "

"But I'm _not_ blind. "

"Well, then you gotta admit they look alike as twins--"

"But I've known twins who didn't look alike, " said P. S. 

"Ah, nix on the stallin'!" George insisted, on the verge of losing histemper. "Molly Lessing's the spit-'n'-image of Marian Blessington--andyou know it. What's more--look at their names? _Molly_ for _Mary_--youmake that? _Mary_ and _Marian's_ near enough alike, ain't they? Andwhat's _Lessing_ but _Blessington_ docked goin' and comin'?"

"Wait a second. If I understand you, George, you're trying to implythat Miss Lessing is identical with Marian Blessington. "

"You said somethin' then, all right. "

"Simply because of the similarity of two syllables in their surnamesand a fancied resemblance of Miss Lessing to this so-called portrait?"

"Now you're gettin' warm, P. S. "

P. S. Laughed quietly: "George, I've been doing you a grave injustice. I apologise. "

George opened his eyes and emitted a resentful "_Huh?_"

"For years I've believed you were merely stupid, " P. S. Explainedpatiently. "Now you develop a famous, if fatuous, gift of imagination. I'm sorry. I apologise twice. "

"Imag'nation hell!" Mr. Bross exploded. "Where's your own? It'splain's daylight what I say is so. When did Miss Lessing come here?Five weeks ago, to a day--March foist, or close onto it--just when the_Joinal_ says she did her disappearin' stunt. How you goin' to getaround that?"

"You forget that the _Journal_ simply reports a rumour. It doesn'tclaim it's true. In fact, the story is contradicted by the very personthat ought to know--Miss Blessington's guardian. "

"Well, if she sailed for Europe on the _Mauretania_, like hesays--how's it come her name wasn't on the passenger list?"

"It's quite possible that a young woman as much sought after andannoyed by fortune hunters, may have elected to sail incognita. It canbe done, you know. In fact, it _has_ been done. "

George digested this in profound gloom. 

"Then you don't believe what I'm tellin' you?"

"Not one-tenth of one iota of a belief. "

George betrayed in a rude, choleric grunt, his disgust to see hissplendid fabrication, so painfully concocted for the delusion anddiscomfiture of P. Sybarite, threatening to collapse of sheerintrinsic flimsiness. He had counted so confidently on the credulityof the little bookkeeper! And Violet had supported his confidence withso much assurance! Disgusting wasn't the word for George's emotions. 

In desperation he grasped at one final, fugitive hope. 

"All right, " he said sullenly: "_all_ right! You don't gotta believeme if you don't wanta. Only wait--that's all I ask--_wait_! You'll seeI'm right when she turns down your invite to-night. "

P. Sybarite smiled sunnily. "So that is why you thought she wouldn'tgo with us, is it?"

"You got me. "

"You thought she, if Marian Blessington, must necessarily be such asnob that she wouldn't associate with poor devils like us, did you?"

"Wait. You'll see. "

"Well, it's none of your business, George; but I don't mind tellingyou, you're wrong. Quite wrong. In the head, too, George. I've alreadyasked Miss Lessing, and she has accepted. "

George's eyes, protruding, glistened with poignant surprise. 

"You ast her already?"

"That's why I left you down the street. I dropped into Blessington'sfor the sole purpose of asking her. "

"And she fell for it?"

"She accepted my invitation--yes. "

After a long pause George ground his cigarette beneath his heel, androse. 

"In wrong, as usual, " he admitted with winning simplicity. "I neverdid guess _any_thin' right the first time. Only--you just grab thisfrom me: maybe she's willin' to run the risk of bein' seen with us, but that ain't sayin' she's anybody but Marian Blessington. "

"You really think it likely that Miss Blessington, hiding from herguardian and anxious to escape detection, would take a job at theglove counter of her own store, where everybody must know her bysight--where her guardian, Shaynon himself, couldn't fail to see herat least twice a day, as he enters and leaves the building?"

Staggered, Bross recovered quickly. 

"That's just her cuteness. She doped it out the safest place for herwould be the last place he'd look for her!"

"And you really think that she, accustomed to every luxury that moneycan buy, would voluntarily come down to living here, at six dollars aweek, and clerking in a department store--simply because, according tothe papers, she's opposed to a marriage that she can't be forced tocontract in a free country like this?"

"Wel-l.... " George floundered helplessly for a moment; and fell backagain upon an imagination for the time being stimulated to an abnormaldegree of inventiveness:

"P'raps old Shaynon's double-crossed her somehow we don't know nothin'about. He ain't above it, if all they tell of him's true. Maybe he'sgot her coin away from her, and she had to go to work for a livin'. Stranger things have happened in this burg, P. S. "

It was the turn of P. S. To hesitate in doubt; or at all events, soGeorge Bross inferred from a sudden change in the expression of thelittle man's eyes. Momentarily they seemed to cloud, as if inintrospection. But he rallied quickly enough. 

"All things are possible, George, " he admitted with his quizzicalgrin. "But this time you're mistaken. I'm not arguing with you, George; I'm _telling_ you: you're hopelessly mistaken. "

"You think so--huh?" growled George. "Well, I got eight iron bucksthat says Marian Blessington to any five of your money. "

He made a bold show of his pay envelope. 

"It'd be a shame to rob you, George, " said P. Sybarite. "Besides, you're bad-tempered when broke. "

"Never you mind about that. Here's my eight, if you've got five thatmakes a noise like Molly Lessing. "

P. Sybarite laughed softly and produced the little wad of bills thatrepresented his weekly wage. At this, George involuntarily drew back. 

"And how would you settle the bet?"

"Leave it to her, " insisted George in an expiring gasp of bravado. 

"You'd ask her yourself?"

"Ye-es--"

"And let it stand on her answer?"

"Wel-l--"

"Here she comes now, " added P. Sybarite, glancing up the street. "Quick, now; you've only a minute to decide. Is it a bet?"

With a gesture of brave decision, George returned his money to hispocket. 

"You're an easy mark, " he observed in accents of deep pity. "I knewyou'd think I meant it. "

"But didn't you, George?"

"Nah--nothin' like that! I was just kiddin' you along, to see how muchyou'd swallow. "

"It's all right then, " agreed P. Sybarite. "Only--George!"

"Huh?"

"Don't you breathe a word of this to Miss Lessing?"

"Why not?"

"Because I tell you not to--because, " said P. Sybarite firmly, "Iforbid you. "

"You--you forbid me? Holy Mike! And what--"

"Sssh!" P. Sybarite warned him sibilantly. "Miss Lessing might hearyou.... What will happen if you disobey me, " he added as the shop girlturned in at the gateway, lowering his own voice and fixing theshipping clerk with a steely stare, "will be another accident, muchresembling that of this afternoon--if you haven't forgotten. Now mindwhat I tell you, and be good. "

Mr. Bross swelled with resentment; exhibited a distorted and empurpledvisage; but kept silence. 

V

THE COMIC SPIRIT

Pausing at the foot of the stoop, Miss Lessing looked up at the twoyoung men and smiled. 

"Good-evening, " she said with a pretty nod for P. Sybarite; and, withits fellow for George, "Good-evening, Mr. Bross, " she added. 

Having acknowledged this salutation with that quaint courtesy whichsomehow seemed to fit him like a garment, P. Sybarite smiled strangelyat the shipping clerk. 

The latter mumbled something incoherent, glanced wildly toward theyoung woman, and spluttered explosively; all with a blush so deep thatits effect was apoplectic. 

Alarmed by this exhibition, Miss Lessing questioned P. Sybarite withher lifted brows and puzzled eyes. 

"George is a little bit excited, " he apologised. "Every so often hebecomes obsessed with mad desire to impose upon some simple andcredulous nature like mine. And failure always unbalances him. Hebecomes excitable--ah--irrational--"

With an inarticulate snort, Mr. Bross turned and fled into the house. 

Confusion possessed him, and with it rage: stumbling blindly on thefirst flight of steps, he clawed the atmosphere with fingers thatitched for vengeance. 

"I'll get even!" he muttered savagely--"I'll get hunk with that boobif it's the last act of my life!"

Fortunately, the hall was gloomy and at that moment deserted. 

On the first landing he checked, clutched the banisters for support, and endeavoured to compose himself--but with less success than herealised. 

It was with a suggestion of stealth that he ascended the secondflight--with an enforced deliberateness and caution that were wasted. For as he reached the top, the door of the back hall-bedroom openedgently for the space of three inches. Through this aperture werevisible a pair of bright eyes, with the curve of a plump and prettycheek, and an adorable bare arm and shoulder. 

"That you, George?" Violet Prim demanded with vivacity. 

Reluctantly he stopped and in a throaty monosyllable admitted hisidentity. 

"Well, how'd it go off?"

"Fine!"

"He fell for it?"

"All over himself. Honest, Vi, it was a scream to watch his eyes pop. You could've clubbed 'em outa his bean without touchin' his beak. I'most died. "

Miss Prim giggled appreciatively. 

"You're a wonder, George, " she applauded. "It takes you to think 'emout. "

"Ah, I don't know, " returned her admirer with becoming modesty. 

"He's gone on her, all right, ain't he?"

"Crazy about her!"

"Think he'll make a play for her now?"

George demurred. Downright lying was all very well; he could managethat with passable craft, especially when, as in this instance, detection would be difficult; but prophecy was a little out of hisline. Though with misgivings, he resorted to unvarnished truth:

"You never can tell about P. S. He's a queer little gink. "

Footsteps became audible on the stairs below. 

"Well, so long. See you at dinner, " George added in haste. 

"George!"

"Well?" he asked, delaying with ill grace. 

"What makes you sound so funny?"

"Laughin'!" protested George convincingly. 

With determination and a heavy tread he went on to his room. 

VI

SPRING TWILIGHT

When he had shaved (with particular care) and changed his linen(trimming collar and cuffs to a degree of uncommon nicety) and resumedhis coat (brushing and hating it simultaneously and with equalferocity, for its very shabbiness) P. Sybarite sought out a pipe oldand disreputable enough to be a comfort to any man, and sat down bythe one window of his room (top floor, hall, back) to smoke andconsider the state of the universe while awaiting the dinner gong. 

The window commanded an elevated if non-exhilarating view of backyards, one and all dank, dismal, and littered with the débris of along, hard winter. Familiarity, however, had rendered P. Sybariteimmune to the miasma of melancholy they exhaled; the trouble in hispatient blue eyes, the wrinkles that lined his forehead, owned anothercause. 

In fact, George had wrought more disastrously upon his temper than P. Sybarite had let him see. His hints, innuendoes, and downrightassertions had in reality distilled a subtle poison into the littleman's humour. For in spite of his embattled incredulity and the clearreasoning with which he had overborne George's futile insistence, there still lingered in his mind (and always would, until he knew thetruth himself) a carking doubt. 

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps George had guessed shrewdly. PerhapsMolly Lessing of the glove counter really was one and the same withMarian Blessington of the fabulous fortune. 

Old Brian Shaynon was a known devil of infinite astuteness; it wouldbe quite consistent with his character and past performances if, despairing of gaining control of his ward's money by urging her intounwelcome matrimony with his son, he had contrived to over-reach herin some manner, and so driven her to become self-supporting. 

Perhaps hardly likely: the hypothesis was none the less quiteplausible; a thing had happened, within P. Sybarite's knowledge ofBrian Shaynon.... 

Even if George's romance were true only in part, these were wretchedcircumstances for a girl of gentle birth and rearing to adopt. It wasreally a shocking boarding-house. P. Sybarite had known it intimatelyfor ten years; use had made him callous to its shortcomings; but hewas not yet so far gone that he could forget how unwholesome anddepressing it must seem to one accustomed to better things. He couldremember most vividly how he had loathed it for weeks, months, andyears after the tide of evil fortunes had cast him upon its crumblingbrownstone stoop (even in that distant day, crumbling). 

Now, however ... P. Sybarite realised suddenly that habit hadinstilled into his bosom a sort of mean affection for the grim andsordid place. Time had made him sib to its spirit, close to itsniggard heart. Scarcely a nook or corner of it with which he was noton terms of the most intimate acquaintance. In the adjoining room adeserted woman had died by her own hand; her moans, filtered throughthe dividing wall, had summoned P. Sybarite--too late. The doublefront room on the same floor harboured an amiable couple whosesempiternal dissensions only his tact and persistence ever served tostill. The other hall-bedroom had housed for many years a dipsomaniacwhose periodic orgies had cost P. Sybarite many a night of bedsidevigil. On the floor below lived a maiden lady whose quenchless hopesstill centred about his amiable person. Downstairs in the clammyparlour he had whiled away unnumbered hours assisting at dreary"bridge drives, " or playing audience to amateur recitals on the agedand decrepit "family organ. " For an entire decade he had occupied thesame chair at the same table in the basement dining-room, feasting onbeef, mutton, Irish stew, ham-and-beans, veal, pork, orjust-hash--according to the designated day of the week.... 

The very room in which he sat was somehow dear to him; upon it hewasted a sentiment in a way akin to that with which one regards thegrave of a beloved friend; it was, in fact, the tomb of his own youth. Its narrow and impoverished bed had groaned with the restless weightof him all those many nights through which he had lain wakeful, inimpotent mutiny against the outrageous circumstances that made him aprisoner there. Its walls had muted the sighs in which the desires ofyouth had been spent. Its floor matting was worn threadbare with theimpatient pacings of his feet (four strides from door to window: swingand repeat _ad libitum_). Its solitary gas-jet had, with begrudgedillumination, sicklied o'er the pages of those innumerable borrowedbooks with which he had sought to dull poignant self-consciousness.... 

A tomb!... Bitterly he granted the aptness of that description of hiscubicle: mausoleum of his every hope and aspiration, sepulchre of allhis ability and promise. In this narrow room his very self had beenextinguished: a man had degenerated into a machine. Everything thatcaught his eye bore mute witness to this truth: the shabby tin alarmclock on the battered bureau was one of a dynasty that had roused himat six in the morning with unfailing regularity three hundred andsixty-five times per year (Sundays were too rare in his calendar andtoo precious to be wasted abed). From an iron hook in the window framedangled the elastic home-exerciser with which it was his unfailinghabit to perform a certain number of matutinal contortions, to keephis body wholesome and efficient. Beneath the bed was visible the rimof a shallow English tub that made possible his subsequent spongebath.... 

A machine; a fixture; creature of an implacable routine; a spiritimmolated upon the altar of habit: into this he had degenerated in tenyears. Such was the effect of life in this melancholy shelter for thehomeless wage-slave. He was no lonely victim. In his term he had seenmany another come in hope, linger in disappointment, leave only to goto a meaner cell in the same stratum of misfortune. 

Was this radiant spirit of youth and gentle loveliness (who might, forall one knew to the contrary, be Marian Blessington after all) to besuffered to become one of that disconsolate crew?

What could be done to prevent it?

Nothing that the wits of P. Sybarite could compass: he was asinefficient as any gnat in any web.... 

Through the halls resounded the cacophonous clangour of a cracked gongannouncing dinner. Sighing, P. Sybarite rose and knocked the ashesdelicately from his pipe--saving the dottle for a good-night whiffafter the theatre. 

Being Saturday, it was the night of ham-and-beans. P. Sybarite loathedham-and-beans with a deathly loathing. Nevertheless he ate his dole ofham-and-beans. He sat on the landlady's right, and was reluctant tohurt her feelings or incur her displeasure. Besides, he was hungry:between the home-exerciser and the daily walks to and from theBrooklyn Bridge, his normal appetite was that of an athlete in pink oftraining. 

Miss Lessing sat on the same side of the main dining-table, but half adozen chairs away. P. Sybarite couldn't see her save by craning hisneck. He refused to crane his neck: it might seem ostentatious. 

Violet and her George occupied adjoining chairs at another and smallertable. Their attendance was occasionally manifested through the mediumof giggles and guffaws. P. Sybarite envied them: he had it in hisheart to envy anybody young enough to be able to see a joke at thatdinner table. 

By custom, the landlady relinquished her seat some minutes in advanceof any guest. When P. Sybarite left the room he found her establishedat a desk in the basement hallway. Pausing, he delivered unto her themajor portion of his week's wage. Setting aside another certain amountagainst the cost of laundry work, tobacco, and incidentals, he hadfive dollars left.... 

He wondered if he dared risk the extravagance of a modest supper afterthe theatre; and knew he dared not--knew it in wretchedness of spirit, cursing his fate.... 

There remained half an hour to be killed before time to start for thetheatre. George Bross joined him on the stoop. They smoked pensively, while the afterglow faded from the western sky and veil after veil ofshadow crept stealthily out of the east, masking the rectangular, utilitarian ugliness of the street, deepening its dusk to darkness. Street lamps, touched by the flame-tipped wand of a belatedlamplighter, bourgeoned spasmodically like garish flowers of themetropolitan night. Across the way gas-lit windows glowed like squareson some great, blurred checker-board. The roadway teemed withshrieking children. Somewhere--near at hand--a pianola lost its temperand whaled the everlasting daylights out of an inoffensive melody from"The Pink Lady. " Other, more diffident instruments tinkledapologetically in the distance. Intermittently, across the gauntscaffolding of the Ninth Avenue L, at one end of the block, roaringtrains flashed long chains of lights. On the other hand, Eighth Avenuebuzzed resonantly in stifling clouds of incandescent dust. The airsmelt of warm asphalt.... 

And it was Spring: the tenth Spring P. Sybarite had watched from thatself-same spot. 

Discontent bred in him a brooding despondency. He felt quite sure thatthe realists were right about Life: it wasn't worth living, after all. 

The prospect of the theatre lost its attraction. He was sure hewouldn't enjoy it. Such silly romantical nonsense was out of tune withthe immortal Truth about Things, which he had just discovered: Lifewas a poor Joke.... 

At his side, George Bross, on his behalf, was nursing his private andpersonal grouch. Between them they manufactured an atmosphere of gloomthat would have done credit to a brace of dumb Socialists. 

But presently Miss Prim and Miss Lessing appeared, and changed allthat in a twinkling. 

VII

AFTERMATH

"Well, " observed Violet generously, "I thought little me was prettywell stage-broke; but I gotta hand it to Otis. He's _some_ actor. Hehad me going from the first snore. "

"Some actor is _right_, " affirmed Mr. Bross with conviction, "and someshow, too, if you wanta know. I could sit through it twicet. Say, Icouldn't quit thinkin' what a grand young time I'd start in this oldburg if I could only con this _Kismet_ thing into slippin' me _my_ Dayof Days. Believe me or not, there would be _a_ party. "

"What would you do?" asked Molly Lessing, smiling. 

"Well, the first flop I'd nail down all the coin that was handy, andthen I'd buy me a flock of automobiles--and have a table reserved forme at the Knickerbocker for dinner every night--and.... " Imaginationflagged. "Well, " he concluded defensively, "I can tell you one thing Iwouldn't do. "

"What?" demanded Violet. 

"I wouldn't let any ward politician like that there _Wazir_, orwhatever them A-rabs called him, kid me into trying to throw a bomb atCharlie Murphy--or anythin' like that. No-oh! Not this infant. That'swhere your friend _Hajj the Beggar's_ foot slipped on him. Up to thenhe had everythin' his own way. If he'd only had sense enough to stall, he'd've wound up in a blaze of glory. "

"But, you bonehead, " Violet argued candidly, "he had to. That was hispart: it was written in the play. "

"G'wan. If he'd just stalled round and refused to jump through, theauthor'd 've framed up some other way out. Why--blame it!--he'd've_had_ to!"

"That will be about all for me, " said Violet. "I don't feel strongenough to-night to stand any more of your dramatic criticism. Lead mehome--and please talk baseball all the way. "

With a resentful grunt, Mr. Bross clamped a warm, moist hand round theplump arm of his charmer, and with masterful address propelled herfrom the curb in front of the theatre, where the little party hadpaused, to the northwest corner of Broadway: their progress consistingin a series of frantic rushes broken by abrupt pauses to escapeannihilation in the roaring after-theatre crush of motor-cars. P. Sybarite, moving instinctively to follow, leaped back to the sidewalkbarely in time to save his toes a crushing beneath the tires of ahurtling taxicab. 

He smiled a furtive apology at Molly Lessing, who had demonstratedgreater discretion, and she returned his smile in the friendliestmanner. His head was buzzing--and her eyes were kind. Neither spoke;but for an instant he experienced a breathless sense of sympatheticisolation with her, there on that crowded corner, elbowed andshouldered in the eddy caused by the junction of the outpouringaudience with the midnight tides of wayfarers surging north and south. 

The wonder and the romance of the play were still warm and vital, inhis imagination, infusing his thoughts with a roseate glamour ofunreality, wherein all things were strangely possible. The iridescentimagery of the Arabian Nights of his boyhood (who has forgotten thefascination of those three fat old volumes of crabbed type, illuminated with their hundreds of cramped old wood-cuts?) had in ascant three hours been recreated for him by Knoblauch's fantasticdrama with its splendid investment of scene and costume, its admirablehistrionic interpretation, and the robust yet exquisitely temperedartistry of Otis Skinner. For three hours he had forgotten his lowlyworld, had lived on the high peaks of romance, breathing only theirrare atmosphere that never was on land or sea. 

Difficult he found it now, to divest his thoughts of thatenthrallment, to descend to cold and sober reality, to remember he wasa clerk, his companion a shop-girl, rather than a Prince disguised asCalander esquiring a Princess dedicated to Fatal Enchantment--thatKismet was a quaint fallacy, one with that whimsical conceit of Orientfatalism which assigns to each and every man his Day of Days, whereinhe shall range the skies and plumb the abyss of his Destiny, alternately its lord and its puppet. 

But presently, with an effort, blinking, he pulled his wits together;and a traffic policeman creating a favourable opening, the twoscurried across and plunged into the comparative obscurity of WestThirty-eighth Street: sturdy George and his modest Violet already afull block in advance. 

Discovering this circumstance by the glimmer through the shadows ofViolet's conspicuously striped black-and-white taffeta, P. Sybaritecommented charitably upon their haste. 

"If we hurry we might catch up, " suggested Molly Lessing. 

"I don't miss 'em much, " he admitted, without offering to mend thepace. 

She laughed softly. 

"Are they really in love?"

"George is, " replied P. Sybarite, after taking thought. 

"You mean she isn't?"

"To blush unseen is Violet's idea of nothing to do--not, at least, when one is a perfect thirty-eight and possesses a good digestion andan infinite capacity for amusement _à la carte_. "

"That is to say--?" the girl prompted. 

"Violet will marry well, if at all. "

"Not Mr. Bross, then?"

"Nor any other poor man. I don't say she doesn't care for George, butbefore anything serious comes of it he'll have to make good use of hisDay of Days--if _Kismet_ ever sends him one. I hope it will, " P. Sybarite added sincerely. 

"You don't believe--really--?"

"Just now? With all my heart! I'm so full of romantic nonsense I canhardly stick. Nothing is too incredible for me to believe to-night. I'm ready to play _Hajj the Beggar_ to any combination ofimpossibilities _Kismet_ cares to brew in Bagdad-on-the-Hudson!"

Again the girl laughed quietly to his humour. 

"And since you're a true believer, Mr. Sybarite, tell me, what use_you_ would make of your Day of Days?"

"I? Oh, I--" Smiling wistfully, he opened deprecatory palms. "Hard tosay.... I'm afraid I should prove a fatuous fool in George's esteemequally with old _Hajj_. I'm sure that, like him, the sunset of my Daywould see me proscribed, a price upon my head. "

"But--why?"

"I'm afraid I'd try to use my power to right old wrongs. "

After a pause, she asked diffidently: "Your own?"

"Perhaps.... Yes, my own, certainly.... And perhaps another's, not soold but possibly quite as grievous. "

"Somebody you care for a great deal?"

Thus tardily made to realise into what perils his fancy was leadinghim, he checked and weighed her question with his answer, gravelyjudgmatical. 

"Perhaps I'd better not say that, " he announced, a grin tempering histemerity; "but I'd go far for a friend, somebody who had been kind tome, and--ah--tolerant--if she were in trouble and could use myservices. "

He fancied her glance was quick and sharp and searching; but her voicewhen she spoke was even and lightly attuned to his whimsical mood. 

"Then you're not even sure she--your friend--is in trouble?"

"I've an intuition: she wouldn't be where she is if she wasn't. "

Her laughter at this absurdity was delightful; whether with him or athim, it was infectious; he echoed it without misgivings. 

"But--seriously--you're not sure, are you, Mr. Sybarite?"

"Only, Miss Lessing, " he said soberly, "of my futile, my painfullyfutile good will. "

She seemed to start to speak, to think better of it, to fall silent insudden, shy constraint. He stole a side-long glance, troubled, wondering if perhaps he had ventured too impudently, pursuing his whimto the point of trespass upon the inviolable confines of her reserve. 

She wore a sweet, grave face, _en profile_; her eyes veiled with longlashes, the haunts of tender shadows; her mouth of gracious lipsunsmiling, a little triste. Compunctions smote him; with his crude andclumsy banter he had contrived to tune her thoughts to sadness. Hewould have given worlds to undo that blunder; to show her that he hadmeant neither a rudeness nor a wish to desecrate her reticence, butonly an indirect assurance of gratitude to her for suffering him andwillingness to serve her within the compass of his poverty-strickenpowers. For in retrospect his invitation assumed the proportions of animportunity, an egregious piece of presumption: so that he could havegroaned to contemplate it. 

He didn't groan, save inwardly; but respected her silence, and heldhis own in humility and mortification of spirit until they were nearthe dooryard of their boarding-house. And even then it was the girlwho loosed his tongue. 

"Why--where are they?" she asked in surprise. 

Startled out of the deeps of self-contempt, P. Sybarite discoveredthat she meant Violet and George, who were nowhere visible. 

"Violet said something about a little supper in her room, " explainedthe girl. 

"I know, " he replied: "crackers and cheese, beer and badinage: ourhumble pleasures. You'll be bored to extinction--but you'll come, won't you?"

"Why, of course! I counted on it. But--"

"They must have hurried on to make things ready--Violet to set herroom to rights, George to tote the wash-pitcher to the corner for thebeer. And very likely, pending our arrival, they're lingering at thehead of the stairs for a kiss or two. "

The girl paused at the gate. "Then we needn't hurry, " she suggested, smiling. 

"We needn't delay, " he countered amiably. "If somebody doesn'tinterrupt 'em before long, George will be too late to get the pitcherfilled. This town shuts up tight at midnight, Saturdays--if you wantto believe everything you hear. So there's no need of being tooindulgent with our infatuated fellow-inmates. "

"But--just a minute, Mr. Sybarite, " she insisted. 

"As many as you wish, " he laughed. "As a matter of fact, I loathedraught beer. "

"Do be serious, " she begged. "I want to thank you. "

He was aware of a proffered hand, slender and fine in a shabby glove;and took it in his own, uneasily conscious of a curious disturbance inhis bosom, of a strange and not unpleasant sense of commingledexpectancy, pleasure, and diffidence (as far as he was able to analyseit--or cared to--at that instant). 

"It was kind of you to come, " he said jerkily, in his embarrassment. 

"I enjoyed every moment, " she said warmly. "But that wasn't all Imeant when I thanked you. "

His eyebrows climbed with surprise. 

"What else, Miss Lessing?"

"Your delicacy in letting me know you understood--"

Disengaging her hand, she broke off with a startled movement, and alow cry of surprise. 

A taxicab, swinging into the street from Eighth Avenue, had boiled upto the curb before the gate, and pausing, discharged a young man in ahurry; witness the facts that he had the door open when halfwaybetween the corner and the house, and was on the running-board beforethe vehicle was fairly at a halt. 

In a stride this one crossed the sidewalk and pulled up, silently, trying to master the temper which was visibly shaking him. Tall, well-proportioned, impressively turned out in evening clothes, hethrust forward a handsome face marred by an evil, twisted mouth, andpeered searchingly at the girl. 

Instinctively she shrank back inside the fence, eyeing him with a lookof fascinated dismay. 

As instinctively P. Sybarite bristled between the two. 

"Well?" he snapped at the intruder. 

An impatient gesture of a hand immaculately gloved in white abolishedhim completely--as far, at least, as the other was concerned. 

"Ah--Miss Lessing, I believe?"

The voice was strong and musical but poisoned with a malicious triumphthat grated upon the nerves of P. Sybarite; he declined to beabolished. 

"Say the word, " he suggested serenely to the girl, "and I'll bundlethis animal back into that taxi and direct the driver to the nearestaccident ward. I'd rather like to, really. "

"Get rid of this microbe, " interrupted the other savagely--"unless youwant him buried between glass slides under a microscope. "

The girl turned to P. Sybarite with pleading eyes and imploring hands. 

"If you please, dear Mr. Sybarite, " she begged in a tremulous voice:"I'm afraid I must speak alone with this"--there was a barelyperceptible pause--gentleman. If you won't mind waiting a moment--atthe door--?"

"If it pleases you, Miss Lessing--most certainly. " He drew back a stepor two. "But speaking of microbes, " he added incisively, "a word ofadvice: don't tease 'em. My bite is deadly: neither Pasteur nor yourfamily veterinary could save you. "

Ignored by the man, but satisfied in his employment of the last word, he strutted back to the brownstone stoop, there to establish himself, out of earshot but within, easy hail. 

Hearing nothing, he made little more of the guarded conference thatbegan on his withdrawal. The man, entering the dooryard, had corneredthe girl in an angle of the fence. He seemed at once insistent, determined, and thoroughly angry; while she exhibited perfectcomposure with some evident contempt and implacable obstinacy. Nevertheless, in a brace of minutes the fellow seemingly brought forthsome telling argument. She wavered and her accents rose in doubt:

"Is that true?"

His reply, if inaudible, was as forcible as it was patently anaffirmative. 

"I don't believe you!"

"You don't dare doubt me. "

This time he was clearly articulate, and betrayed a conviction that hehad won the day: an impression borne out by the evident irresolutionof the girl, prefacing her abrupt surrender. 

"Very well, " she said in a tone of resignation. 

"You'll go?"

"Yes. "

He moved aside, to give her way through the gate. But she hung back, with a glance for P. Sybarite. 

"One moment, please, " she said: "I must leave a message. "

"Nonsense--!"

She showed displeasure in the lift of her chin. "I think I'm my ownmistress--as yet. "

He growled indistinguishably. 

"You have my promise, " she cut him short coldly. "Wait for me. " Andshe turned back to the house. 

Wondering, P. Sybarite went to meet her. Impulsively she gave him herhand a second time; with as little reflection, he took it in both hisown. 

"Is there nothing I can do?"

Her voice was broken: "I don't know. I must go--it's imperative.... Could you--?... I wonder!"

"Anything you ask, " he asserted confidently. 

Hesitating briefly, in a tone little above a whisper: "I must go, " sherepeated. "I can't refuse. But--alone. Do you understand--?"

"You mean--without him?" P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming inthe gateway. 

"Yes. If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for meto get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur--"

The chest of P. Sybarite swelled. 

"Leave it to me, " he said with fine simplicity. 

"Molly!" cried the man at the gate. 

"Don't answer, " P. Sybarite advised: "if you don't, he'll losepatience and come to fetch you. And then--"

"But I'm afraid he may--"

"_Molly!_"

"Don't you fear for me: God's good to the Irish. "

"MOLLY!"

"Do be quiet, " suggested P. Sybarite, not altogether civilly. 

The other started as if slapped. 

"What's that?" he barked in a rage. 

"I said, hold your tongue. "

"The devil you did!" With a snort the man strode in to the stoop. "Doyou know who you're talking to?" he demanded wrathfully, towering overP. Sybarite, momentarily forgetful of the girl. 

Stepping aside, as if in alarm, she moved behind the fellow, anddarted through the gate. 

"I don't, " P. Sybarite admitted amiably; "but your nose annoys me. "

He fixed that feature with an irritating glare. 

"You impudent puppy!" stormed the other. "Who are you?"

"Who--me?" echoed P. Sybarite in surprise. (The girl was nowinstructing the chauffeur. ) "Why, " he drawled, "I'm the guy that putthe point in disappointment. Sure you've heard of _me_?"

At the curb, the door of the taxicab closed with a slam. Simultaneously the drone of the motor thickened to a rumble. The manwith the twisted mouth turned just in time to see it drawing away. 

"_Hi!_" he cried in surprise and dismay. 

But the taxi didn't pause; to the contrary, it stretched out towardNinth Avenue at a quickening pace. 

With profanity appreciating the fact that he had been tricked, hepicked up his heels in pursuit. But P. Sybarite had not finished withhim. Deftly plucking the man back by the tail of his full-skirtedopera coat, he succeeded in arresting his flight before it was fairlystarted. 

"Here!" he protested. "What's your hurry?"

With a vicious snarl, the man turned and snatched at his cloak. But P. Sybarite adhered tenaciously to the coat. 

"We were discussing your nose--"

At discretion, he interrupted himself to duck beneath the swing of apowerful fist. And this last, failing to find a mark, threw its owneroff his balance. Tripping awkwardly over the low curbing of thedooryard walk, he reeled and went a-sprawl on his knees, while his hatfell off and (such is the impish habit of toppers) rolled and boundedseveral feet away. 

Releasing the cloak, P. Sybarite withdrew to a respectful remove andheld himself coolly alert against reprisals that never came. The otherpicked himself up quickly, cast about for the taxicab, discovered itswiftly making off--already twenty yards distant--and with a howl ofrage bounded through the gate and gave chase at the top of his speed. 

Gravely, P. Sybarite retrieved the hat and followed to the curbing. 

"Hey!" he shouted after the fast retreating figure--"here's your_hat_!"

But he wasted breath. The taxicab was nearing Ninth Avenue, itspursuer sprinting bravely a hundred feet to the rear, and as hewatched, both turned the northern corner and vanished like shapes ofdream. 

Sighing, P. Sybarite went back to the stoop and sat down to considerthe state of his soul (which was vain-glorious) and the condition ofthe hat (which was soiled, rumpled, and disreputable). 

VIII

WHEELS OF CHANCE

Turning the affair over in his mind, and considering it from everyimaginable angle, P. Sybarite decided (fairly enough) that it was, onthe whole, mysterious; lending at least some colour of likelihood toGeorge's gratuitous guess-work. 

Certainly it would seem that one had now every right to assume MissMolly Lessing to be other than as she chose to seem; nowadays thevillain in shining evening dress doesn't pursue the shrinkingshop-girl save through the action of the obsolescent mellerdrammer orof the ubiquitous moving-picture reel. So much must at least be saidfor these great educators: they have broken the villain of hisopen-face attire; to-day he knows better, and when prowling to devour, disguises himself in the guileless if nobby "sack suit" of the widelyadvertised Kollege Kut brand.... 

In short, Molly Lessing might very well be Marian Blessington, afterall!

In which case the man with the twisted mouth was, more probably thannot, none other than that same Bayard Shaynon whom the young lady wasreported to have jilted so arbitrarily. 

Turning the topper over in his hands, it occurred to P. Sybarite towonder if he did not, in it, hold a valuable clue to this riddle ofidentity. Promptly he took the hat indoors to find out, investigatingit most thoroughly by the flickering, bluish glare of the lonelygas-jet that burned in the hallway. 

It was a handsome and heavy hat of English manufacture, as witness thename of a Bond Street hatter in its crown; by the slightdiscolouration of its leather, had seen service without, however, depreciating in utility, needing only brushing and ironing to restoreits pristine brilliance; carried neither name nor initials on itslining; and lacked every least hint as to its ownership--or so itseemed until the prying fingers of P. Sybarite turned down the leatherand permitted a visiting card concealed therein to flutter to thefloor. 

The hall rack was convenient; hanging up the hat, P. Sybarite pickedup the card. It displayed in conventional script the name, _BaileyPenfield_, with the address, _97 West 45th Street_; one corner, moreover, bore a pencilled hieroglyphic which seemed to read:"_O. K. --B. P. _"

"Whatever, " P. Sybarite mused, "_that_ may mean. "

He turned the card over and examined its unmarked and taciturnreverse. 

Stealthy footsteps on the stairs distracted his studious attentionfrom the card. He looked up, blinking and frowning thoughtfully, tosee George descending with the wash-pitcher wrapped in, but by nomeans disguised by, brown paper. Once at the bottom of the stairs, this one expressed amazement in a whisper, to avoid rousing theirlandlady, who held, unreasonably, that it detracted from the tone ofher establishment for gentlemen boarders to rush the growler.... 

"Hel-lo! We thought you must've got lost in the shuffle. "

"Did you?" said P. Sybarite absently. 

"Where's Molly?"

"Miss Lessing?" P. Sybarite looked surprised. "Isn't sheupstairs--with Violet?"

"No!"

"That's funny.... "

"Why, when'd she leave you?"

"Oh, ten minutes ago, or so. "

"She must have stopped in her room for somethin'. "

"Perhaps. "

"But why didn't you come on up?"

"Well, you see, I met a man outside I wanted to talk to for a moment. So I left her at the door. "

"Well, Vi's waitin'. Run on up. I won't be five minutes. And knock onMolly's door and see what's the matter. "

"All right, " returned P. Sybarite serenely. 

His constructive mendacity light upon his conscience, he permittedGeorge time enough to leave the house and gain Clancey's, then quietlyfollowed as far as the gate, from which point he cut across thesouthern sidewalk, turned west to Ninth Avenue, and there north toForty-second Street, where he boarded a cross-town car. 

This was quite the most insane freak in which he had indulged himselfthese many years; and frankly admitting this much, he was ratherpleased than otherwise. He was bound to call on Mr. Bailey Penfieldand inform that gentleman where he might find his hat. Incidentally hehoped to surprise something or other informing with regard to thefortunes of Miss Lessing subsequent to her impulsive flight bytaxicab. 

All of which, he calmly admitted, constituted an inexcusableimpertinence: he deserved a thoroughgoing snubbing, and ratheranticipated one, especially if destined to find Mr. Penfield at homeor, by some vagary of chance, to encounter Miss Lessing again. 

But he smiled cheerfully in contemplation of this prospect, buoyed upwith a belief that his unconsciously idiotic behaviour wasintrinsically more or less Quixotic, and further excited by the hopethat he might possibly be permitted to serve his lady of mystery. 

At all events, he meant to know more about Mr. Bailey Penfield beforehe slept. 

Alighting at Sixth Avenue, he walked to Forty-fifth Street, turned offto the right, and in another moment was at a standstill, in theextremest perplexity, before Number 97. 

By every normal indication, the house was closed and tenantless. Fromroof to basement its every window was blind with shades close-drawn. The front doors were closed, the basement grating likewise. Anatmospheric accumulation of street debris littered the areaflagstones, together with one or two empty and battered ash-cans, inwhose shadows an emaciated cat skulked apprehensively. The one thinglacking to signify that the Penfield ménage had moved bodily to thecountry, was the shield of a burglar protective association in one ofthe parlour windows. P. Sybarite looked for that in vain. 

Disappointed in the conviction that he had drawn a false lead, thelittle man strolled on eastward a little distance, then on sheerimpulse, gave up his project and, swinging about, started to go home. But now, as he approached Number 97 the second time, a taxicab turnedin from Sixth Avenue, slid to the curb before that dwelling, and setdown a smallish young man dressed in the extreme of fashion--a personof physical characteristics by no means to be confused with those ofthe man with the twisted mouth--who, negligently handing a bill to thechauffeur, ran nimbly up the steps, rang the door-bell, and promptlyletting himself into the vestibule, closed the door behind him. 

The taxicab swung round and made off. Not so P. Sybarite. Profoundlyintrigued, he waited hopefully for this second midnight caller toreappear, as baffled as himself. But though he dawdled away a patientfive minutes, nothing of the sort occurred. The front doors remainedclosed and undisturbed, as little communicative as the darkenedwindows. 

Here was mystery within mystery, indeed! The circumstances annoyed P. Sybarite intensely. And why (he asked himself, with impatience) needhe remain outside when another entered without let or hindrance?

Upon this thought he turned boldly up the steps, pressed thebell-button; laid hold of the door-knob, and entered into a vestibuleas dark as his bewilderment and as empty as the palm of his hand;proving that the young gentleman of fashion had experienced nodifficulty in penetrating farther into fastnesses of this singularestablishment. And reflecting that where one had gone, another mightfollow, P. Sybarite pulled the door to behind him. 

Instantly the bare and narrow vestibule was flooded with the mercilessglare of half a dozen electric bulbs; and at the same time he foundhimself sustaining the intent scrutiny of a pair of inhospitable darkeyes set in an impassive dark face--this last abruptly disclosed inthe frame of a small grille in one of the inner doors. 

Though far too dumfounded for speech, he contrived to return the starewith aggressive interest, and to such effect that he presently worethrough the patience of the other. 

"Well?" he was gruffly asked. 

"The Saints be praised!" returned P. Sybarite. "I find myself so. Andyourself?" he added civilly: not to be outdone, as the saying is. 

"What do you want?"

Irritating discourtesy inhered in the speaker's tone. P. Sybaritestiffened his neck. 

"To see Mr. Penfield, " he returned firmly--"of course!"

"What Mr. Penfield?" asked the other, after a pause so transient thatit was little more than distinguishable, but which to P. Sybariteindicated beyond question that at least one Mr. Penfield was known tohis cautious interlocutor. 

"Mr. Bailey Penfield, " he replied. "Who else?"

During a pause slightly longer than the first, the hostile andsuspicious eyes summed him up a second time. 

"No such party here, " was the verdict. The man drew back and made asif to shut the grille. 

"Nonsense!" P. Sybarite insisted sharply. "I have his card with thisnumber--got it from him only to-night. "

"Card?" The face returned to the grille. 

P. Sybarite made no bones about displaying his alleged credential. 

"I believe you'll find that authentic, " he observed with asperity. 

By way of answer, the grille closed with a snap; but his inclinationto kick the door was nullified when, without further delay, it openedto admit him. Nose in air, he strutted in, and the door clanged behindhim. 

"Gimme another slant at that card, " the guardian insisted. 

Surrendering it with elaborate indifference, P. Sybarite treatedhimself to a comprehensive survey of the place. 

He stood in the main hall of an old-fashioned residence. To his right, a double doorway revealed a drawing-room luxuriously furnished but, asfar as he could determine, quite untenanted. On the left, a longstaircase hugged the wall, with a glow of warm light at its head. Tothe rear, the hall ended in a single doorway through which he couldsee a handsome mahogany buffet elaborately arranged with shimmeringdamask, silver, and crystal. 

"It's all right, " announced the warden of the grille, his suspicionsto all seeming completely allayed. "Mr. Penfield ain't in just atpresent, but"--here he grinned shrewdly--"I reckon you ain't so deadset on seein' him as you made out. "

"On the contrary, " P. Sybarite retorted stiffly, "my business isimmediate and personal with Mr. Penfield. I will wait. "

"Sure. " Into the accents of the other there crept magically a trace ofgeniality. "Will you go right on up, or would you like a bite ofsomethin' to eat first?"

At the mere hint of food, a frightful pang of hunger transfixed P. Sybarite. He winked furtively, afraid to trust Iris tongue to speech. 

"What d'ya say?" insinuated the doorkeeper. "Just a bit of a snack, eh? Say a caviare sandwich and a thimbleful of the grape?"

Abandoning false pride, P. Sybarite yielded:

"I don't mind if I do, thank you. "

"Straight on back; Pete'll take care of you, all right. "

A thumb indicated the door in the rear of the hall. Thither P. Sybarite betook himself on the instant, spurred by the demands of anappetite insatiable once it had won recognition. 

He found the back room one of good proportions: whatever thearchitect's original intention, now serving as a combined lounge andgrill, richly and comfortably furnished in sober, masculine fashion, boasting in all three buffets set forth with a lavish display of foodand drink. In one of many deeply upholstered club chairs a gentlemanof mature years and heavy body, with a scarlet face and a crumpled, wine-stained shirt-bosom, was slumbering serenely, two-thirds of anextravagant cigar cold between his fingers. In others two young menwere confabulating quietly but with a most dissipated air, headstogether over a brace of glasses. At a corner service table a negro ina white jacket was busy with a silver chafing-dish which exhaled atantalising aroma. This last, at the entrance of P. Sybarite, glancedquickly over his shoulder, and seeing a strange face, clapped thecover on the steaming chafing-dish and discovered a round blackcountenance bisected by a complete mouthful of the most brilliantteeth imaginable. 

"Yas-suh--comin'!" he gabbled cheerfully. "It's sho' a pleasure to seeyo' again. "

"At least, " suggested P. Sybarite, dropping into a chair, "it will be, next time. "

"Tha's right, suh--that's the troof!" The negro placed a small tableadjacent to his elbow. "Tha's what Ah allus says to strange gemmun, fust time they comes hyeh, suh; makes 'em feel more at home like. Jus'lemme know what Ah kin do for yo' to-night. That 'ere lobstuhNewburg's jus' about prime fo' eatin' this very minute, ef yo' feel abit peckish. "

"I do, " P. Sybarite admitted. "Just a spoonful--"

"An' uh lil drink, suh? Jus' one lil innercent cocktail to fix yo'mouf right?"

"If you insist, Pete--if you insist. "

"Yas-suh; and wif the lobstuh, suh, Ah venture to sug-gest a nice coldlil ha'f-pint of Cliquot, Yallah Label? How that strike yo' fancy, suh? Er mebbe yo'd perfuh--"

"Enough!" said P. Sybarite firmly. "A mere bite and a glass are enoughto sustain life. "

"Ain't that the troof?"

Chuckling, the negro waddled away, returned, and offered the guest aglass brimming with amber-tinted liquid. 

Poising the vessel delicately between thumb and forefinger, P. Sybarite treated himself to one small sip--an instant of lingeringdelectation--another sip. So only, it is asserted, must the victim ofthe desert begin to allay his burning thirst; with discretion--a sipat a time--gingerly. 

It was years since P. Sybarite had tasted a cocktail artfullyconcocted. 

Dreamily he closed his eyes halfway. From a point in his anatomy adegree or two south of his diaphragm, a sensation of the most warmcongratulation began to pervade his famished system: as if (hethought) his domestic economy were organising a torchlight processionby way of appropriate celebration. 

Tender morsels of lobster smothered in cream and sherry (piping hot)daintiest possible wafers of bread-and-butter embracing leaves of palelettuce, a hollow-stemmed glass effervescent with liquid sunlight of amost excellent bouquet, and then another: these served not in theleast to subdue his occult jubilation. 

Finally "the house, " through the medium of its servitor, insisted thathe top off with a cigar. 

Ten years since his teeth had gripped a Fancy Tales of Smoke!... 

Now it mustn't be understood that P. Sybarite entertained anymisapprehensions as to the nature of the institution into which he hadstumbled. He had not needed the sound, sometimes in quieter momentsaudible from upstairs, of a prolonged whirr ending in several staccatoclicks, to make him shrewdly cognisant of its questionable character. 

So at length, satiate and a little weary--drawn by curiositybesides--he rose, endowed Pete lavishly with a handful of small change(something over fifty cents; all he had in the world aside from hischerished five dollars), and with an impressive air of the mostthorough-paced sophistication (nodding genially to the doorkeeper _enpassant_) slowly ascended to the second floor. 

Here, in remodelling the house for its present purposes, partitionshad arbitrarily been dispensed with, aside from that enclosing thewell of the stairway; the floor was one large room, wholly devoted tosome half a dozen games of chance. With but few of these was P. Sybarite familiar; but on information and belief he marked down a farolayout, the device with which his reading had made him acquaintedunder the designation of _les petits chevaux_, and at either end ofthe saloon, immense roulette tables. 

Upon all the gaming tables massive electric domes concentrated theirlight. The walls, otherwise severely unadorned, were covered withlustrous golden fabric; the windows were invisible, cloaked insplendid golden hangings; the carpet, golden brown in tone, was of avelvet pile so heavy that it completely muffled the sound offootsteps. The room, indeed, was singularly quiet for one thatharboured some two-score players in addition to a full corps ofdealers, croupiers, watchers, and waiters. The almost incessant whineof racing ivory balls with their clattering over the metalcompartments of the roulette wheels, clicking of chips, dispassionatevoices of croupiers, and an occasional low-pitched comment on the partof one or another of the patrons, seemed only to lend emphasis to thehush. 

The warmth of the room was noticeable.... 

A brief survey of the gathering convinced P. Sybarite that, barringthe servants, he was a lonely exception to the rule of evening dress. But this discovery discomfited him not at all. The wine buzzing in hishead, his demeanour, not to mince matters, rakehelly, with an eyealert for the man with the twisted mouth, negligent hands in histrouser pockets, teeth tight upon that admirable cigar, he struttedhither and yon, ostensibly as much in his native element as a pressagent in a theatre lobby. 

A few minutes sufficed to demonstrate that the owner of the abandonedhat was not among those present; which fact, coupled with thedoorkeeper's averment that Mr. Bailey Penfield was out, persuaded P. Sybarite that this last was neither more nor less than the proprietorof the premises. But this conclusion perturbed, completely unsettlinghis conviction regarding the _soi-disant_ Miss Lessing; he couldn'timagine either her or Miss Marian Blessington in any way involved witha common (or even a proper) gambler. 

To feel obliged constantly to revise his hasty inferences, heconsidered tremendously tiresome. It left one all up in the air!

His tour ended at last in a pause by the roulette table at the rear ofthe room. Curious to watch the game in being, he lingered there, headcocked shrewdly on one shoulder, a speculative pensiveness informinghis eyes, his interest plainly aloof and impersonal. This despite thefact that his emotions of intestinal felicity were momentarilybecoming more intense: the torchlight procession was in full swing, leaving an enduring refulgence wherever it passed. 

There were perhaps half a dozen players round the board--four on onewing, two on the other. Of the latter, one was that very young man whohad been responsible for P. Sybarite's change of mind with regard togoing home. With a bored air this prodigal was frittering awayfive-dollar notes on the colours, the columns, and the dozens: his illsuccess stupendous, his apparent indifference positively magnificent. But in the course of the little while that P. Sybarite watched, heeither grew weary or succeeded in emptying his pockets, and ceasing toplay, sat back with a grunt of impatience more than of disgust. 

The ball ran its course thrice before he moved. Then abruptly liftinghis finger to the croupier: "Five on the red, Andy, " said he. 

"Five on the red, " repeated the croupier; and set aside achocolate-coloured chip in memorandum of the wager. 

When the ball settled again to rest, the announcement was monotonouslyrecited: "Nine, red, odd, first dozen. " And the blasé prodigal waspresented with the chocolate-coloured token. 

Carelessly he tossed it upon the red diamond. Black won. Unperturbed, he made a second oral bet, this time on black, and lost; increased hiswager to ten dollars on black--and lost; made it twenty, shifted tored, and lost; dropped back to five-dollar bets for three turns of thewheel, and lost them all. Fifty dollars in debt to the house, he rose, nodded casually to the croupier, left the room. 

In mingled envy and amazement P. Sybarite watched him go. Fancy losingthree weeks' wages and a third of another week's without turning ahair! Fancy losing fifty dollars without being required to pay up!

"Looks easy, " meditated P. Sybarite with a thrill of dreadfulyearning.... 

At precisely that instant the torchlight procession penetrated aterritory theretofore unaffected, which received it with open arms andtumultuous rejoicings and even went so far as to start up a couple ofbonfires of its own and hang out several strings of Japanese lanterns. In the midst of a confusion of soaring skyrockets and Roman candlesvomiting showers of scintillant golden sparks, P. Sybarite was shockedto hear his own voice. 

"Five on the red, " it said distinctly, with an effect of extravagantapathy. 

A thought later he caught the croupier's eye and drove the wager homewith a nod. His heart stopped beating. 

Five dollars! All he had in the world!

The _whirr_ of the deadly little ball in its ebony runway was likenothing less than the exultant shriek of a banshee. Instantaneously(as if an accident had happened in the power house) every light in hisbody went out and left it cold and dark and altogether dismayed. 

The croupier began his chant: "Three, red--!"

P. Sybarite failed to hear the rest. All the lights were on again, full blast. The croupier tossed him a chocolate token. He wasconscious that he touched it with numb and witless fingers, mechanically pushing it upon the red diamond. 

Ensued another awful, soul-sickening minute of suspense.... 

"Twenty-five, red--!"

A second brown chip appeared magically on top of the first. P. Sybarite regarded both stupidly; afraid to touch them, his braincommunicated to his hand the impulse to remove the chips ere it wastoo late, but the hand hung moveless in listless mutiny. 

"_Thirty-four red_--!"

Two more chips were added to his stack. 

And this time his brain sulked. If his body wouldn't heed its plainand sagacious admonition--very well!--it just wouldn't bother tosignal any further advice. 

But quite instinctively his hand moved out, tenderly embraced the fourbrown chips, and transferred them to the green area dominated by theblack diamond. 

"_Twelve, black_--!"

Forty dollars were represented in that stunted pillar of brown wafers!P. Sybarite experienced an effect of coming to his senses after anabbreviated and, to tell the truth, somewhat nightmarish nap. Apingthe manner of one or two other players whom he had observed beforethis madness possessed him, he thrust the chips out of the charmedcircle of chance, and nodded again (with what a seasoned air!) to thecroupier. 

"Cash or chips?" enquired that functionary. 

"Oh--cash, thank you. "

The chips gathered into the company of their brethren, twotwenty-dollar bills replaced them. 

Stuffing these into his pocket, P. Sybarite turned and strolledindifferently toward the door. 

"Better leave while your luck holds, " Intelligence counselled. 

"Right you are, " he admitted fairly. "I'll go home now before anybodygets this away from me. "

"Sensible of you, " Intelligence approved. 

"Still, " suggested the small but clear voice of Greed, "you've gotyour original five dollars yet to lose. Be a sport. Don't go withoutturning in a cent to the house. It wouldn't look pretty. "

"There's something in that, " admitted P. Sybarite again. 

Nevertheless, he never quite understood how it was that his feetcarried him to the other roulette table, at the end of the salonopposite that at which he had been playing; or how it was that hisfingers produced and coolly handed over the board, one of thetwenty-dollar notes rather than the modest five he had meant to risk. 

"How many?" the new croupier asked pleasantly. 

P. Sybarite pulled a doubtful mouth. Five dollars' worth was all hereally wanted. What on earth would he do with all the chips twentydollars would buy? He'd need a bushel measure!

Before he could make up his mind, however, exactly twenty whitecounters were meted out to him. 

"What are these worth?" he demanded incredulously, dropping into achair. 

"One dollar each, " he was informed. 

"Indeed?" he replied, politely smothering a slight yawn. 

But he conceived a new respect for those infatuated men who sorecklessly peppered the lay-out with chips--singly and in little pilesof five and ten--worth one-hundred cents each!

However, to save his face, he'd have to go through his twenty. Butafter that--exit!

He made this promise to himself. 

Prying a single chip apart from its fellows, he tossed it heedlesslyupon the numbered squares. It landed upon its rim, rolled toward thewheel, and fainted gracefully upon the green compartment numbered 00. 

The croupier cocked an eyebrow at him, as if questioning hisintention, at the instant the ivory ball began to sing its song of asingle note. Abruptly it was chattering; in another instant it wasstill. 

"Double O!" announced a voice. 

A player next P. Sybarite swore soulfully. 

Thirty-five white chips were stacked alongside the winning stake. Withunbecoming haste P. Sybarite removed them. 

"Well, " he sighed privately, "there's one thing certain: this won'tlast. But I don't like to seem a piker. I'll just make sure of thisone: it can't win. And at that, I'll be another fifteen dollars in. "

Deliberately he shifted the nineteen remaining of his original stackto keep company with his winning chip on the Double O.... 

A minute or so later the man at his elbow said excitedly: "I'll bedamned if it didn't repeat! Can you beat that--!"

P. Sybarite stared stupidly. 

"How's that?" he said. 

"Double O, " the croupier answered: "the second time. "

"This is becoming uncanny, " P. Sybarite observed to himself;and--"Cash!" said he aloud with cold decision. 

Seven new one-hundred dollar certificates were placed in his hand. Ina daze he counted, folded, and pocketed them. While thus engaged heheard the ball spin again. His original twenty dollars remained uponthe double naught. Ten turned up: his stake was gathered in. 

"You've had enough, " Intelligence advised. 

"Perfectly true, " P. Sybarite admitted. 

This time his anatomy proved quite docile. He found himself at thefoot of the steps, fatuously smiling at the doorkeeper. 

"He ain't come in yet, " said the latter; "but he's liable to be hereany minute now. "

"Oh, yes, " said P. Sybarite brightly, after a brief pause--"Mr. Penfield, of course. Sorry I can't wait. "

"Well, you'll want your hat before you go--won't you?"

Placing an incredulous hand upon the crown of his head, P. Sybariterealised that it was covered exclusively with hair. 

"I must have put it down somewhere upstairs, " he murmured in panic. 

"Mebbe you left it with Pete before you went up. "

"Perhaps I did. "

Turning back to the lounge, he entered to find it deserted save forthe somnolent old gentleman and the hospitable Pete, but for whom P. Sybarite would probably never have known the delirious joy of thatinternal celebration or found the courage to risk his first bet. 

And suddenly the fifty-cent tip previously bestowed upon the servitorseemed, to one unexpectedly fallen heir to the princely fortune thenin P. Sybarite's pockets, the very nadir of beggarliness. 

"Pete, " said he with owlish gravity, "I begin to see that I have doneyou an inexcusable injustice. "

Giggling, the negro scratched his head. 

"Well, suh, " he admitted, "Ah finds that gemmun gen'ly does changethey min's erbout me, aftuh they done cut er melon, like. "

With the air of an emperor, P. Sybarite gave the negro a twenty-dollarbill. 

"And now, " he cut short a storm of thanks, "if you'll be good enoughto give me just one more glass of champagne, I think I'll totterhome. "

"Yas-_suh!_"

In a twinkling a glass was in his hand. As if it were so muchwater--in short, indifferently--P. Sybarite tossed it off. 

"And my hat. "

"Yo' hat?" Pete iterated in surprise. "Yo' didn't leaf yo' hat wif me, suh; yo' done tek it wif yo' when yo' went upstahs. "

"Oh, " murmured P. Sybarite, dashed. 

He turned to the door, hesitated, turned back, and solemnly sathimself down. 

"Pete, " said he, extending his right foot, "I wish you'd do somethingfor me. "

"Yas-suh!"

"Take off my shoe. "

Staring with naïf incredulity until assured of the gentleman'scomplete seriousness, the negro plumped down upon his knees, unlaced, and removed the shoe. 

"It's a shocking shoe, " observed P. Sybarite dreamily. 

Bending forward he tucked his original five-dollar note into the toeof the despised footgear. 

"I am not going home broke, " he explained laboriously to Pete; "as Icertainly shall if I dare go upstairs again to find my hat. "

"Yo's sholly sens'ble, " Pete approved. "But they ain't no reason whyyo' sho'd tek enny mo' chances ef yo' don't wantuh, " he added, knotting the laces. "I'd just as leave's not go fetch yo' hat. "

"You needn't bother, " P. Sybarite returned with dignity. 

IX

THE PLUNGER

A humour the most cool and reckless imaginable now possessed P. Sybarite. The first flush of his unaccustomed libations seemed to haveworn itself out, his more recent draught to have had no other effectthan to steady his gratulate senses; and a certain solid comfortresided in the knowledge that his hard-earned five dollars reposed insafe deposit. 

"They can't get _that_ away from me--not so long as I'm able to kick, "he reflected with huge satisfaction. 

And the seven hundred and thirty-five in his pocket was possessed of adevil of restlessness. He could almost feel it quivering withimpatience to get into action. After all, it was only seven hundredand thirty-five dollars: not a cent more than the wages of forty-nineweeks' servitude to the Genius of the Vault of the Smell!

"That, " mused P. Sybarite scornfully, "won't take me far.... 

"What, " he argued, "is the use of travelling if you can't go to theend of the line?... 

"I might as well be broke, " he asseverated, "as the way I am!"

Glancing cunningly down his nose, he saw the finish of a fool. 

"Anyway, " he insisted, "it was ever my fondest ambition to get rid ofprecisely seven hundred and thirty-five dollars in one hour by theclock. "

So he sat down at the end of the table of his first winnings, andexchanged one of his seven big bills for one hundred white chips. 

"What, " he asked with an ingenious smile, "is the maximum?"

"Seein's it's you, " said the croupier, grinning, "we'll make it twentya throw. "

"Such being the case"--P. Sybarite pushed back the little army ofwhite chips--"you may give me twenty dark-brown counters forthese.... "

In ten minutes he had lost two hundred dollars. 

At the end of twenty minutes, he exchanged his last thirty-fivedollars for seven brown chips. 

Ten minutes later, he was worth eighteen hundred dollars; in anotherten, he had before him counters calling for five thousand orthereabouts. 

"It is, " he observed privately--"it must be my Day of Days!"

A hand touched his shoulder, and a quiet voice said: "Beg pardon--"

He looked up with a slight start--that wasn't one of joyous welcome, because the speaker was altogether a stranger--to find at his elbow alarge body of man entirely surrounded by evening clothes and urbanity;whose face was broad with plump cheeks particularly clean-shaven;whose eyes were keen and small and twinkling; whose fat hand (offeredto P. Sybarite) was strikingly white and dimpled and well-manicured;whose dignity and poise (alike inimitable) combined with thecomplaisance of a seasoned student of mankind to mark an individualityat once insinuating and forceful. 

"You were asking for me, I believe?" pursued this person, withcomplete suavity. 

P. Sybarite pursed doubtful lips. "I'm afraid, " he repliedpleasantly, "you have the advantage of me.... Let's see: this is mythirty-second birthday.... "

The ball was spinning. He deposited four chips on the square numbered32. 

"I am Mr. Penfield, " the stranger explained. 

"Really?" P. Sybarite jumped up and cordially seized his hand. "I hopeI see you well to-night. "

Releasing the hand, he sat down. 

"Quite well, thank you; in fact, never better. " With a slight smileMr. Penfield nodded toward the gaming table. "Having a good time?"

"_Thirty-two, red, even_, " observed the croupier.... 

"Oh, tolerable, tolerable, " assented P. Sybarite, blandly acceptingcounters that called for seven hundred dollars.... 

"In one year from to-day, I shall be thirty-three, " he reckoned; andshifted a maximum to the square designated by that number.... 

"What do you think? Is Teddy going to get the nomination?"

"I'm only very slightly interested in politics, " returned Mr. Penfield. "I shouldn't like to express an opinion.... Sorry a priorengagement obliged me to keep you waiting. "

"_Thirty-three, black, odd_.... "

"Don't mention it, " insisted P. Sybarite politely. "Not another wordof apology--I protest! Indeed, I've managed to divert myself amazinglywhile waiting.... Thank you, " he added in acknowledgment of anotherseven-hundred-dollar consignment of chips. "To-day, " he mused aloud, "is the thirteenth of April--"

"The fourteenth, " corrected Mr. Penfield: "to-day is only about twohours old. "

"Right you are, " admitted P. Sybarite, shifting twenty dollars fromthe 13 to the 14. "Careless memory of mine ... "

"_Thirteen, black, odd_.... "

"There, now! You see--you spoiled my aim, " P. Sybarite complainedpeevishly. 

"Forgive me, " murmured Mr. Penfield while P. Sybarite made anotherwager. "Are you in a hurry to break the bank?" he added. 

"It's my ambition, " modestly confessed the little man, watching asecond twenty gathered in to the benefit of the house. "But I've onlya few minutes more--and you do play such a _darned_ small game. "

"Perhaps I can arrange matters for you, " suggested Mr. Penfield. "You'd like the limit removed?"

"Not as bad as all that. Make the maximum a hundred, and I'll begin tofeel at home. "

"Delighted to oblige. You won't object to my rolling for you?"Penfield nodded to the croupier; who (first paying P. Sybarite sevenhundred on his last wager) surrendered his place. 

"Not in the least, " agreed P. Sybarite, marshalling his chips instacks of five: twenty-five dollars each. "It's an honour, " he added, covering several numbers as Penfield deftly set ball and wheel inmotion. 

He won the first fall; and encouraged by this, began to playextravagantly, sowing the board liberally with wagers of twenty-five, fifty, and one hundred dollars each. Hardly ever the ball clattered toa lodgment but he cashed one or another of these; and the number oftimes that the house paid him thirty-five hundred dollars passed hiscount. All other play at that table ceased; and a gallery of patronsof the establishment gathered round, following with breathlessinterest the fortunes of this shabby little plunger. Their presence, far from annoying, pleased him; it was just so much additionalassurance of fair play. The mounting of the roulette wheel--it wasplaced upon a broad sheet of plate-glass elevated several inches abovethe table--was proof against secret manipulation. And a throng ofspectators not only forbade any attempt to call wrong numbers on awinning cast but likewise insured fair dealing on the part of thecroupier, who was so busy raking in losing bets or paying winningsthat P. Sybarite had time neither to watch him nor to check hispayments. 

Penfield, cool and smiling, confined his attention to the wheel. If hefelt any uneasiness or dismay on account of P. Sybarite's steadilyaugmented mountain of chips, he betrayed it not at all overtly. 

But abruptly (they had been playing less than fifteen minutes) hepaused and, instead of starting the ball on another race round itsebony run, dropped it lightly in the depression immediately above theaxle of the wheel. 

"The game is closed, " he announced evenly, with a slow smile. "Sir"--directly to P. Sybarite--"although it lacks the resources ofMonte Carlo, this establishment nevertheless imitates its protectivemeasures. A table losing twenty-five thousand dollars in one dayceases operations. You are just twenty-five thousand to the good. Accept my congratulations. "

"You are very amiable, " insisted P. Sybarite, rising, with a littlebow. "But if you care for revenge, I shall be pleased to continue atthe other table. "

"Unfortunately that, too, has suspended operations, " returnedPenfield. "However, I hope before long to relieve you of your gains. "

Opening the cash drawer, he cleared it completely of its contents, placing before P. Sybarite a tremendous accumulation of bills, old andnew, of all denominations, loose and in packages, together with someten or twelve golden double-eagles. 

"I believe you will find that correct, " he observed genially. "Afterwards, I trust you will do me the honour of splitting a bottlewith me in the lounge. "

"Delighted, " said P. Sybarite. 

Penfield strolled off, exchanged a few words with an acquaintance ortwo, and a few more with his employees, and went downstairs. Theremaining handful of patrons disappeared gradually, yet so quicklythat P. Sybarite was a lonely outsider by the time he had finishedcounting his winnings and stowing them away about his person. 

Presenting the croupier with five hundred dollars, he recovered hishat (at last) and descended, to find Penfield awaiting him at the footof the steps. 

X

UNDER FIRE

Bloated though he was with lawless wealth and fat with insufferableself-satisfaction, P. Sybarite, trotting by the side of his host, wasdwarfed alike in dignity and in physique, strongly resembling anespecially cocky and ragged Airedale being tolerated by a well-groomedSt. Bernard. 

Now when Pete had placed a plate of caviare sandwiches between them, and filled their glasses from a newly opened bottle, he withdrew fromthe lounge and closed the door behind him; whether or not at a signfrom Penfield, P. Sybarite was unaware; though as soon as they werealone and private, he grew unpleasantly sensitive to a drop in thetemperature of the entente cordiale which had thus far obtainedbetween himself and the gambler. Penfield's eyes promptly lost much oftheir genial glow, and simultaneously his face seemed weirdly lessplump and rosy with prosperity and contentment. Notwithstanding this, with no loss of manner, he lifted a ceremonious glass to the health ofhis guest. 

"Congratulations!" said he; and drank as a thirsty man drinks. 

"May your shadow never grow less!" P. Sybarite returned, putting downan empty glass. 

"That's a perfectly good wish plumb wasted, " said Penfield, refillingboth glasses, his features twisted in the wriest of grimaces. "Factis--I don't mind telling you--your luck to-night has, I'm afraid, played the very devil with me. This house won't open up again until Iraise another bank-roll. "

"My sympathy, " said P. Sybarite, sipping. "I'm really distressed.... And yet, " he added thoughtfully, "you had no chance--none whatever. "

"How's that?" said Penfield, staring. 

"You couldn't have won against me to-night, " P. Sybarite ingenuouslyexplained; "it could _not_ be done: I am invincible: itis--_Kismet_!--my Day of Days!"

Penfield laughed discordantly. 

"Maybe it looks that way to you. But aren't you a little premature?You haven't banked that wad yet, you know. Any minute something mighthappen to make you think otherwise. "

"Nothing like that is going to happen, " P. Sybarite retorted with calmconviction. "The luck's with me at present!"

"And yet, " said the other, abandoning his easy pose and sitting upwith a sharpened glance and tone, "you are wrong--quite wrong. "

"What makes you think that?" demanded P. Sybarite, finishing hissecond glass. 

"Because, " said his host with a dangerous smile, "I am a desperateman. "

"Oh?" said P. Sybarite thoughtfully. 

"Believe me, " insisted the other with convincing simplicity: "I'm sucha bum loser, I'm willing to stake my last five hundred on theproposition that you don't leave this house a dollar richer than youentered it. "

"Done!" said P. Sybarite instantly. "If I get away with it, you pay mefive hundred dollars. Is that right?"

"Exactly!"

"But--where shall we meet to settle the wager?"

Penfield smiled cheerfully. "Dine with me at the Bizarre this eveningat seven. "

"If I lose, with pleasure. Otherwise, you are to be my guest. "

"It's a bargain. "

"And--that being understood, " pursued P. Sybarite curiously--"perhapsyou won't mind explaining your grounds for this conspicuousconfidence. "

"Not in the least, " said the other, pulling comfortably at hiscigar--"that is, if you're willing to come through with a littleinformation. I'm curious to know how you came to butt in here on mypersonal card of introduction. Where did you get it?"

"Found it in a hat left in my possession by a gentleman in a greathurry, whom I much desired to see again, and therefore--presuming himto be Mr. Bailey Penfield--came here to find. "

"A gentleman unknown to you?"

"Entirely: a tall young man with an ugly mouth; rather fancieshimself, I should say: a bit of a bounder. You recognise this sketch?"

"Perhaps ... " Penfield murmured thoughtfully. 

"His name?"

"Maybe he wouldn't thank me for telling you that. "

"Very well. Now then: why and how are you going to separate me from mywinnings?"

"By force, " said Mr. Penfield with engaging candour. "It desolates meto descend to rough-neck methods, but I am a larger, stronger man thanyou, Mr. --"

"Sybarite, " said the little man, flushing, "P. --by the grace ofGod!--Sybarite. "

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sybarite.... But before welose our tempers, what do you say to a fair proposition: leave me whatyou have won to-night, and I'll pay it back to the last cent withinterest in less than six months. "

P. Sybarite shook his head: "I'm sorry. "

The dark blood surged into Penfield's cheeks. "You won't accept myword--?"

"I have every confidence in your professional honour, " P. Sybaritereplied blandly, "up to the certain point to which we have attainedto-night. But the truth is--I need the money. "

"You're unwise, " said the other, and sighed profoundly. "I'm sorry. You oblige me to go the extreme limit. "

"Not I. On the contrary, I advise you against any such dangerouscourse. "

"Dangerous?"

"If you interfere with me, I'll go to the police. "

"The police?" Penfield elaborated an inflexion of derision. "I keepthis precinct in my vest pocket. "

"Possibly--so far as concerns your maintenance of a gambling house. But murder--that's another matter. "

"Meaning, you refuse to submit without extreme measures?"

"Meaning just that, sir!"

Again the gambler sighed. "What must be, must, " said he, rising. Moving to the wall, he pressed a call-button, and simultaneouslywhipped a revolver into view. "I hope you're not armed, " he protestedsincerely. "It would only make things messy. And then I hate to havemy employees run any risk--"

"You are summoning a posse, I take it?" enquired P. Sybarite, likewiseon his feet. 

"Half a dozen huskies, " assented the other. "If you know your littlebook, you'll come through at once and save yourself a manhandling. "

"It's too bad, " P. Sybarite regretted pensively--and cast a desperateglance round the room. 

What he saw afforded him no comfort. The one door was unquestionablyguarded on the farther side. The windows, though curtained, were asindubitably locked and further protected by steel outside blinds. Besides, Penfield bulked big and near at hand, a weapon of the mostdeadly calibre steadily levelled at the head of his guest. 

But exactly at the moment when despair entered into the heart of thelittle man--dispossessing altogether his cool assumption of confidencein his star--there rang through the house a crash so heavy that itsmuffled thunder penetrated even the closed door of the lounge. Anotherfollowed it instantly, and at deliberate intervals a third and fourth. 

Penfield blenched. His eyes wavered. He punched the bell-button asecond time. 

The door was thrown wide and--with the instantaneous effect of ajack-in-the-box--Pete showed a dirty-grey face of fright on thethreshold. 

"Good Lord, boss!" he yelled. "Run for yo' life! We's raided!"

He vanished.... 

With an oath, Penfield started toward the door--and instantly P. Sybarite shot at his gun hand like a terrier at the throat of a rat. Momentarily the shock of the assault staggered the gambler, and as hegave ground, reeling, P. Sybarite closed one set of sinewy fingerstight round his right wrist, and with the other seized and wrested therevolver away. The incident was history in a twinkling: P. Sybaritesprang back, armed, the situation reversed. 

Recovering, Penfield threw him a cry of envenomed spite, and in onestride left the room. He was turning up the stairs, three steps and anoath at a bound, by the time P. Sybarite gained the threshold and spedhis departing host with a reminder superfluously ironic:

"The Bizarre at seven--don't forget!"

A breathless imprecation dropped to him from the head of thestaircase. And he chuckled--but cut the chuckle short when a heavy andmetallic clang followed the disappearance of the gambler. The irondoor upstairs had closed, shutting off the second floor from the lowerpart of the house, and at the same time consigning P. Sybarite to themercies of the police as soon as they succeeded in battering down thefront door. 

Now he harboured no whim to figure as the sole victim of the raid--tobe arrested as a common gambler, loaded to the guards with cash andunable to give any creditable account of himself. 

"Damn!" said P. Sybarite thoughtfully. 

The front doors still held, though shaking beneath a shower ofaxe-strokes that filled the house with sonorous echoes. 

At his feet, immediately to the left of the lounge door, yawned thewell of the basement stairway. And one chance was no more foolhardythan another. Like a shot down that dark hole he dropped--and broughtup with a bang against a closed door at the bottom. Happily, it wasn'tlocked. Turning the handle, he stumbled through, reclosed the door, and intelligently bolted it. 

He was now in a narrow and odorous corridor, running from front torear of the basement. One or two doors open or ajar furnished all itslight. Trying the first at a venture, P. Sybarite discovered whatseemed a servant's bedroom, untenanted. The other introduced him to akitchen of generous proportions and elaborate appointments--cool, airy, and aglow with glistening white paint and electric light;everything in absolute order with the exception of the central table, where sat a man asleep, head pillowed on arms folded amid a disorderof plates, bottles and glasses--asleep and snoring lustily. 

P. Sybarite pulled up with a hand on the knob, and blinked withsurprise--an emotion that would assuredly have been downright dismayhad the sleeper been conscious. For he was in uniform; and a cap hungon the back of his chair; and uniform and cap alike boasted theinsignia of the New York Police Department. 

Wrinkling a perplexed nose, P. Sybarite swiftly considered thesituation. Here was the policeman on the beat--one of those creaturesof Penfield's vaunted vest-pocket crew--invited in for a bite and supby the steward of the house. The steward called away, he had driftednaturally into a gentle nap. And now--"Glad I'm not in _his_ shoes!"mused P. Sybarite. 

And yet.... Urgent second thought changed the tenor of his tempertoward the sleeper. Better far to be in his shoes than in those of P. Sybarite, just then.... 

Remembering Penfield's revolver, he made sure it was safe and handy inhis pocket; then strode in and dropped an imperative hand on thepoliceman's shoulder. 

"Here--wake up!" he cried; and shook him rudely. 

The fellow stirred, grunted, and lifted a bemused, red countenance tothe breaker of rest. 

"Hello!" he said in dull perception of a stranger. "What's--row?"

"Get up--pull yourself together!" P. Sybarite ordered sternly. "You're liable to be broke for this!"

"Broke?" The officer's eyes widened, but remained cloudy with sleep, drink, and normal confusion. "Where's Jimmy? Who're you?"

"Never mind me. Look to yourself. This place is being raided. "

"Raided!" The man leaped to his feet with a cry. "G'wan! It ain'tpossible!"

"Listen, if you don't believe me. "

The crashing of the axes and the grumble of the curious crowdassembled in the street were distinctly audible. The officer needed noother confirmation; and yet--instant by instant it became more clearlyapparent that he had drunk too deeply to be able to think for himself. Standing with a hand on the table, he rocked to and fro until, losinghis balance, he sat down heavily. 

"My Gawd!" he cried. "I'm done for!"

"Nonsense! No more than I--unless you're too big a fool to take a wordof advice. Here--off with your coat. "

"What's that?"

"I say, off with your coat, man--and look sharp! Get it off and I'llhide it while you slip into one of those waiter's jackets over there. Then, if they find us here, we can pretend to be employees. Youunderstand?"

"We'll get pinched, all the same, " the man objected stupidly. 

"Well, if we do, it only means a trip to the Night Court, and a fineof five or ten dollars. You'll be up to-morrow for absence from post, of course, but that's better than being caught half-drunk in thebasement of a gambling house on your beat. "

Impressed, the officer started to unbutton his tunic, but hesitated. 

"S'pose some of the boys recognise me?"

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

"Guess you 're right, " mumbled the other thickly, shrugging out of hiscoat 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 hisarm, grabbed the police cap and started for the door. 

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

With this the little man shot out into the hallway, slammed the doorbehind him, and darted into the adjoining bedroom. Once there, he lostno time changing coats--not forgetting to shift his money aswell--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 onthe run. For by this time the front doors had fallen in and the upperfloor was echoing with deep, excited voices and heavy, hurryingfootsteps. In another moment or so they would be drawing the basementfor fugitives. 

He had planned--vaguely, inconclusively--to leave by the area doorwhen the raiders turned their attention to the basement, presentinghimself to the crowd in the street in the guise of an officer, and somake off. But now--with his fingers on the bolts--misgivings assailedhim. 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 hisslight body. He doubted whether his disguise would passunchallenged--doubted so strongly that he doubled suddenly to the backdoor, flung it open, and threw himself out into the black strangenessof the night--and at the same time into the arms of two burlyplain-clothes men posted there to forestall precisely such an attemptat escape. 

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

"Here!" a voice warned him roughly. "It ain't goin' to do you nogood--"

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

"Why the hell didn't you say so?" demanded the first as P. Sybaritefell 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 insistedsavagely--"and give me a leg. "

"Oh, well!" said one of the plain-clothes men in a slightly mollifiedvoice--"if that's the way of it--all right. "

"Come along, then, " brusquely insisted the impostor, leading the wayto the eastern wall of boards enclosing the back yard. 

Curiously complaisant for one of his breed, the detective bent hisback and made a stirrup of his clasped hands, but no sooner had P. Sybarite fitted foot to that same than the man started and, straightening up abruptly, threw him flat on his back. 

"Patrolman, hell! Whatcha doin' in them pants and shoes if you're apatrol--"

"Hel-_lo_!" exclaimed the other indignantly. "Impersonatin' anofficer--eh?"

With this he dived at P. Sybarite; who, having bounced up from asupine to a sitting position, promptly and peevishly swore, rolled toone side (barely eluding clutches that meant to him all thosefrightful and humiliating consequences that arrest means to theaverage man) and scrambled to his feet. 

Immediately the others closed in upon him, supremely confident ofovercoming by concerted action that smallish, pale, and terrifiedbody. Whereupon P. Sybarite' stepped quickly to one side and, avoidingthe rush of one, directly engaged the other. Ducking beneath awindmill play of arms, he shot an accurate fist at this aggressor'sjaw; there was a click of teeth, the man's head snapped back, andfolding up like a tripod, he subsided at length. 

Then swinging on a heel, P. Sybarite met a second onset made moredangerous by the cooler calculations of a more sophisticatedantagonist. Nevertheless, deftly blocking a rain of blows, he closedin as if eager to escape punishment, and planted a lifted knee in thelarge of the detective's stomach so neatly that he, too, collapsedlike a punctured presidential boom and lay him down at rest. 

Success so egregious momentarily stupefied even P. Sybarite. Gazingdown upon those two still shapes, so mighty and formidable whensentient, he caught his breath in sharp amazement. 

"Great Heavens! Is it possible _I_ did that?" he cried aloud--and thenext moment, spurred by alert discretion, was scaling the fence withthe readiness of an alley-cat. 

Instantaneously, as he poised above the abyss of Stygian blackness onthe other side, not a little daunted by its imperturbable mystery, aquick backward glance showed him figures moving in the basementhallway of the gambling house; and easing over, he dropped. 

Hard flags received him with native impassivity: stumbling, he lostbalance and sat down with an emphasis that drove the breath from himin one mighty "_Ooof!_"

There was a simultaneous confusion of new, strange voices on the otherside of the fence; cries of surprise, recognition, excitement:

"Feeny, by all that's holy!"

"Mike Grogan, or I'm a liar!"

"What hit the two av urn?"

"Gawd knows!"

"Thin 'tis this waay thim murdherous divvles is b'atin' ut!"

"Gimme a back up that fince!... "

P. Sybarite picked himself up with even more alacrity that if he'dlanded in a bed of nettles, tore across that terra-incognita, found asecond fence, and was beyond it in a twinkling. 

Swift as he was, however, detection attended him--a voice roaring:"There goes wan av thim now!"

Other voices chimed in spendthrift with suggestions and advice.... 

Blindly clearing fence after fence without even thinking to countthem, P. Sybarite hurtled onward. Noises in the rear indicated adetermined pursuit: once a voice whooped--"_Halt or I fire!_"--and ashot, waking echoes, sped the fugitive's heels.... 

But in time he had of necessity to pause for breath, and pulled up inthe back-yard of a Forty-sixth Street residence, his duty--to find away to the street and a shift from that uniform of unhappyinspiration--as plain as the problem it presented was obscure. 

XI

BURGLARY UNDER ARMS

And there P. Sybarite stood, near the middle of a fence-enclosed areaof earth and flagstones; winded and weary; looking up and all aroundhim in distressed perplexity; in a stolen coat (to be honest about it)and with six months' income from a million dollars unlawfully procuredand secreted upon his person; wanted for resisting arrest andassaulting the minions of the law; hounded by a vengeful anddetermined posse; unacquainted with his whereabouts, ignorant of anyway of escape from that hollow square, round whose sides window afterexcitable window was lighting up in his honour; all in all, asdistressful a figure of a fugitive from justice as ever was on land orsea.... 

Conceiving the block as a well a-brim with blackness and clamorouswith violent sound, studded on high with inaccessible, yellow-brightloopholes wherefrom hostile eyes spied upon his every secret movement, and haunted below by vicious perils both animate and still: he foundhimself possessed of an overpowering desire to go away from therequickly. 

But--short of further dabbling in crime--_how_?

To break his way to the street through one of those houses would henot only to invite apprehension: it would be downright burglary. 

To continue his headlong career of the fugitive backyards tom-cat wasout of the question, entirely too much like hard work, painful intothe bargain--witness scratched and abraded palms and agonised shins. Sooner or later his strength must fail, some one would surely espy himand cry on the chase, he must be surrounded and overwhelmed: while tohide behind some ash-barrel was not only ignoble but downrightfatuous: faith the most sublime in his _Kismet_ couldn't excuse anyhope that, eventually, he wouldn't be discovered and ignominiouslyrouted out. 

Very well, then! So be it! Calmly P. Sybarite elected to ventureanother and deeper dive into amateurish malfeasance; and gravely hestudied the inoffensive building whose back premises he was theninfesting. 

It seemed to offer at least the negative invitation of desuetude. Itshowed no lights; had not an open window--so far as could bedetermined by straining sight aided only by a faint reflection fromthe livid skies. One felt warranted in assuming the premises to bevacant. Encouraging surmise! If such were in fact the case, he mighthope soon to be counting his spoils in the privacy of histop-floor-hall-bedroom, back.... 

At the same time, to one ignorant of the primary principles ofhouse-breaking, the problem of negotiating an entrance was offormidable proportions. 

To break a basement window was feasible, certainly--but highlyinadvisable for a number of obvious reasons. 

To force a window-latch required (if memory served) a long flat-bladedknife--a kitchen knife; and P. Sybarite happened to have no suchimplement about him. 

Similarly, to pry open the back door would require the services of ajimmy (whatever that might be). 

Moreover, there were such things as burglar alarms--inventions of thedevil!

On the other hand, unless his senses deceived him, there were policeofficers in plenty only a fence or two away; and the back of thishouse boasted a fire-escape. By inverting a convenient ash-can andstanding on it, an active man might possibly, if sufficientlydesperate, manage to jump a vertical yard (more or less), catch thelowermost grating of the fire-escape, and draw himself up. 

In a thought P. Sybarite turned the galvanised iron cylinderbottom-up, clambered upon it, and on tiptoe sought to gauge the exactdistance of the requisite leap. But now the grating seemed to havereceded at least three feet from its position as first judged--to behopelessly removed from the grasp of his yearning fingers. 

Yet that mad attempt must be made. Why die fighting when a broken neckwould serve as well?

Gathering his slight person together, P. Sybarite crouched, quivered, jumped for glory and the Saints--and all but brained himself on thatimpish and trickish grating. Clutching it and kicking footloose, hewas stunned by the wonder of many brilliant new-born constellationsswirling round his poor head to the thunderous music of the spheres, as rendered by the ash-can which, displaced by the vigour of hisacrobatics, had toppled over and was rolling and clattering hideouslyon the flagging. 

In his terrified bosom P. Sybarite felt the heart of him turn to coldand clammy stone. 

No clamour more infernal could well have been improvised, givensimilar circumstances and facilities as rude. It seemed hours, ratherthan instants, that the damned thing wallowed and bellowed beneathhim, raising a din to disturb all Christendom. While, the moment itwas still, the cries of the police pack belled clear and near at hand:

"This way, b'ys!"

"There he is, the--"

"Got 'im now--"

"Halt or--!"

Another pistol shot!... 

Glancing over shoulder, the hunted man caught a glimpse of uncouthshapes wriggling along a fence ridge several rods away. No more thanthe barest glimpse, it served: with a mighty heave and wriggle hebreasted the lower platform, shifted a hand to the top of its railing, heaved himself up to a foothold, and swarmed up the iron ladder withan agility an ape might have envied. 

But as he mounted, it grew momentarily more evident that the stagethunder manufactured by that wretched galvanised iron cylinder had, infact, served him far from ill; reverberating from wall to wall withinthe hollow of the block, its dozen echoes diverted pursuit to as manyquarters, luring the limbs of the law every way but the right one. Nobody, it appeared, was alert enough to espy that fugacious shadow onthe fire-ladder. And in less than a brace of minutes P. Sybarite, atthe top, was pulling himself gingerly over the lip of a stone coping. 

Surmising that he had gained not the roof of the house but that of atwo-story rear extension, he found himself in what seemed a smallroof-garden, made private by awnings and Venetian blinds. Between hissoles and the stone flooring he could feel the yielding texture of agrass mat, and he could not only dimly discern but also smell theperfume of green things in pots here and there. And his first stepforward brought him into soft collision with a wicker basket-chair. 

He paused and took thought in perturbation. 

A most disappointing and deceptive sort of a house--inhabited, afterall: its sombre and quiet aspect masking Heaven alone knew whatpitfalls!... 

Not a glint of light, not a sound.... 

When he moved again, it was with scrupulous caution. 

Stealing softly on, the darkness seemed to thicken round him. He wassensible of suspense and qualms, of creeping flesh and an almostirresistible inclination to hold his breath. Uncanny business, this--penetrating unknown fastnesses of a dark and silent house atdead of night: a trespasser unable to surmise when the righteoushouseholder, lurking on familiar ground and vigilant under arms, mightnot open fire.... 

Nevertheless, the police behind him were a menace of known calibre. With whatever shrinkings and dire misgivings, P. Sybarite went on. 

Without misadventure he gained the main wall of the house, and therefound open windows and (upon further cautious investigation) adoorway, likewise wide to the bland night air. Hesitant on thethreshold of this last he sought with impotent senses to probeimpenetrable obscurity--listening, every nerve taut and vibrant, forsome sound significant of human tenancy, and detecting never an one. In spite of this, it was without the least confidence that presentlyhe plucked up heart to proceed.... 

Three steps on into darkness, and his knee found a chair that mighthave poised itself on one leg, in malicious ambush, so promptly did itgo over--and with what a racket. 

Incontinently something rustled quite near at hand; followed aclick--blinding light--a shrill, excited voice:

"Hands up!"

With a jerk, up went his hands high above his head. Blinking furiouslyin the glare, he comprehended his plight. 

The lights he found so dazzling blazed from sconces round the walls ofa bedroom more handsome than any he had thought ever to see--unlessperhaps upon a stage. The voice belonged to a young woman sitting upin bed and coolly covering him with the yawning muzzle of a peculiarlypoisonous-looking automatic pistol. 

It was astonishingly evident that she wasn't at all frightened. Thearm that levelled the weapon (a round and shapely arm, bare to theshoulder) was admirably steady; the rich colouring of her distinctlyhandsome face showed not a trace of pallor; and the fire thatflickered in her large and darkly beautiful eyes was of indignationrather than of fear. 

Abruptly she dropped her weapon and sat up yet straighter in herhuddled bed-clothing, mouth and eyes widening with astonishment. 

"Well!" she said quite simply--"I'll be damned if it ain't a cop!"

P. Sybarite immediately took occasion to lower his hands to a morecomfortable position. 

Fright inspired his latent histrionic genius; momentarily he becamealmost a good actor. 

"Thank God!" he exclaimed fervently. "You're the one woman in athousand who knows enough to look before she shoots! _Phwew!_"

[Illustration: "You're the one woman in a thousand who knows enough tolook before she shoots!"]

Quite naturally he drew a braided blue cuff across a beaded forehead. 

"That's all very well, " the woman took him up sharply--"but be carefulI don't shoot after looking. Cop or no cop, you--what the devil do youwant in my bedroom at this hour of the night?"

"Madam, " P. Sybarite expostulated, aggrieved yet with an air of theutmost candour--"my duty, of course!"

"Duty!" she echoed. "What do you think you mean by that?"

"Perhaps, " he countered blandly, "you're not aware a burglar haspassed through this room?"

"A burglar? What rot!"

"Pardon me, madam, " P. Sybarite lied nonchalantly, "but five minutesago I was called in by the people in Two-thirty-three Forty-fifthStreet, to nab a burglar who'd broken in there. They thought they hadhim locked up safe enough in one of the rooms, but when they came toopen the door and let _me_ at him--the bird had flown! He'd taken along chance--swung himself from the window-ledge to a fire-escape fivefeet away--don't ask _me_ how he did it! I got to the window just intime to see him go over the back fence. You heard me take a shot athim? No?"

"No, I didn't, " said the woman in a manner eloquent of positiveincredulity. 

"Well, _any_way, " P. Sybarite went on with elaborate ease, "I saw thisman climb your fire-escape and so I came after him. "

The woman frowned as she weighed this likely story; and P. Sybaritewas at pains to conceal any exultation he may have felt over theprompt response of his vivid imagination to the call of exigence. 

Would she or wouldn't she accept that wildly fanciful yarn of his? Formoments that, brief though they must have been, seemed intolerablyprotracted, he awaited her verdict in the extremest anxiety--not, however, neglecting to employ the respite thus afforded him to makeanother quick survey of the room and a second and more shrewdappraisal of its admirably self-possessed tenant. 

A bit too florid and ornate--he concluded--woman and lodgings alikewere somewhat overdone. A superabundance of gilt and pink marred thecolour scheme of the apartment; and there was ostentatious evidence ofwealth lavishly expended on its furnishings. An overpoweringvoluptuousness of silken clothing dressed the bed itself. 

But if her setting were luxurious, the woman outshone it tenfold withthe dark splendour of her animal beauty. As comely and as able-bodiedas a young pantheress, she was (one judged) little less dangerous--asvital, as self-centred, as deadly. Sitting up in bed, openly carelessof charms hardly concealed by nightwear of sheer silk lace and _crêpede Chine_, she looked P. Sybarite up and down with wide eyes overwisein the ways of life, shrewdly judicious of mankind; handled her pistolwith experienced confidence; spoke, in a voice of surpassingsweetness, with decision and considerable overt contempt for thephraseology of convention--swearing without the least affectation, slanging heartily when slang best suited her humour.... 

"Maybe you're telling the truth, at that, " she announced suddenly, eyes coldly unprepossessed. "You sound fishy as all-hell, and God_knows_ you're the sickest-looking cop I ever laid eyes on; but thereare less unlikely things than that a second-story man should try thisroute for his getaway.... Well!" she demanded urgently--"what're youstanding there for, like a stone man?"

"My dear lady--!" expostulated the dismayed P. Sybarite. 

"Can the fond stuff and get busy. What're you going to do?"

"What am I--? What--ah--do you wish me to do?"

"If you're a cop, go to it--cop somebody, " she replied with a brusquelaugh--"and then clear out. I can use the room and time you'reoccupying. Besides, while you stand there staring as if you'd neverseen a good-looking woman in a nightgown before, you're slipping thesaid burglar a fine young chance to make the front door--unless he'sunder the bed. "

"Under the bed?" stammered the masquerader. 

"You said something then, " the woman snapped. "Why not look?"

Mechanically obedient to her suggestion, down P. Sybarite plumped onhis knees, lifted the silken valance at the foot of the bed, andpretended to explore the darkness thereunder--finding precisely whathe had anticipated, that is to say, nothing. 

While thus occupied (and badgering his addled wits to invent someplausible way to elude this Amazon) he was at once startled and stillfurther dismayed to hear the bed-springs creak, a light double thumpas two bare feet found the floor, and again the woman's voiceflavoured with acid sarcasm. 

"You seem to find it interesting down there. Is it the view? Or areyou trying to hypnotise your burglar by the well-known power of thehuman eye?"

"It's pure and simple reverence for the proprieties, " P. Sybaritereplied without stirring, "keeps me emulating the fatuous ostrich. Idon't pretend it's comfortable, but I, believe me, madam, am a plainman, of modest tastes, unaccustomed to--"

"Get up!" the lady interrupted peremptorily. "I guess your regard forthe proprieties won't suffer any more than my fair name. Come out ofthat and hunt burglars like a good little cop. "

"But who am I, " pleaded the little man, "to gaze unblinded upon thesun?"

"That, " said the lady, smothering a giggle, "will be about _all_ fromyou. Get up--or I'll call in a sure-enough cop to search your title tothat uniform. "

Hastily P. Sybarite withdrew his head and rose. An embarrassed glanceaskance comforted him measurably: the lady had thrown an exquisitenegligee over her nightdress and had thrust her pretty feet intoextravagantly pretty silken mules. 

"Now, " said she tersely, "we'll comb the premises for this burglar ofyours: and if we don't find him"--her lips tightened, her browsclouded ominously--"I promise you an interesting time of it!"

"I'm vastly diverted as it is--truly I am!" protested P. Sybarite, ruefully eyeing the lady's pistol. "But there 's really no need todisturb yourself: I'm quite competent to take care of anyhousebreaker--"

"That, " she broke in, "is something you'll have to show me.... Where'syour nightstick?"

"My--er--what?"

"Your nightstick. What've you done with it?"

With consternation P. Sybarite investigated the vacant loop at hisside. 

"Must've dropped out while I was shinning over the back fence, " hesurmised vaguely. "However, I shan't need it. This"--with a bright andconfident smile displaying Penfield's revolver--"will do just aswell--better, in fact. "

"That?" she questioned. "That's not a Police Department gun. Where'dyou--"

"Oh, yes, it is. It's the new pattern--recently adopted. They've justbegun to issue 'em. I got mine to-day--"

The lady's lips curled. "Very well, " she concluded curtly. "I don'tbelieve a word you say, but we'll see. Lead the way--show me onesolitary sign that a burglar has been here--"

"Perhaps you'd prefer me to withdraw from the case?" the little mansuggested with offended dignity. "After all, I may be mistaken--"

"You'd better not be. I warn you, find me a burglar--or"--she addedwith unmistakable significance--"I'll find one myself. "

Interpreting the level challenge of her glance, P. Sybarite's heartquaked, his soul curdled, his stomach for picaresque adventure failedhim entirely: anatomically, in short, he was hopelessly disqualifiedfor his chosen rôle of favourite of _Kismet_, protagonist of this Dayof Days. Withal, there was no use offering resistance to the demandsof this masterful woman; she was patently one to be humoured against amore auspicious turn of affairs. 

He shrugged, gave in with a gesture. Her imperative arm, uplifted, indicated an inner door. 

"Find that burglar!"

"Swell chance I've got to get away with that proposition, " hegrumbled. "You've delayed me long enough to let any burglar get cleanaway!"

"And you hang back, giving him more time, " she cut in. "Lead the way, now!"

Awed, P. Sybarite grasped his revolver and strode to the door withmuch dramatic manner, but paused with a hand on the knob to look overhis shoulder. 

The woman was there, not a foot distant, her countenance a mask ofsuspicious determination. 

"Go on!" she commanded in menacing accents. 

He pulled the door open, flung out into the hallway, paused again atthe mouth of the back pit of the stairway. 

Behind him the woman snapped a switch; an electric bulb glared out ofthe darkness. And P. Sybarite, peering down, started back with a gaspof amazement that was echoed in his ear. 

On the stairs, halfway down, a man was crouching in a posture offrozen consternation: a small electric pocket-lamp burning brilliantlyin one hand, the other, lifted, grasping a weapon of some curioussort, in the eyes of P. Sybarite more than anything else like, a smallblack cannon: a hatless man in evening clothes, his face half blottedout by a black mask that, enhancing the brightness of startled eyesgleaming through its peepholes, left uncovered only his angularmuscular jaw and ugly, twisted mouth. 

For a full minute (it seemed) not one of the three so much as drewbreath; while through the haze of dumfounderment in P. Sybarite'sbrain there loomed the fact that once again _Kismet_ had played intohis hands to save his face in thus lending material body and substanceto the burglar of his desperate invention. 

And then, as if from a heart of agony, the woman at his side breatheda broken and tortured cry:

"You dog! So it's come to murder, has it?"

As if electrified by that ejaculation, P. Sybarite whipped upPenfield's revolver and levelled it at the man on the stairs. 

"Hands up!" he snapped. "Drop that gun!"

The answer was a singular sound--half a choking cough, half asmothered bark--accompanied by a jet of fire from the strange weapon, and coincident with the tinkling of a splintered electric bulb. 

Instantly the hall was again drenched in darkness but little mitigatedby the light from the bedroom. 

Heedless of consequences, in his excitement, P. Sybarite pulledtrigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, rose and fell half adozen times without educing any response other than the click of metalagainst metal: demonstrating beyond question that the revolver wasunloaded. 

From the hand of the marauder another tongue of flame licked out, tothe sound of the same dull, bronchial cough; and a bullet thumpedheavily into the wall beside P. Sybarite. 

Enraged beyond measure, he drew back his worthless weapon and threw itwith all his might. And _Kismet_ winged the missile to the firing armof the assassin. With a cry of pain and anger, this last involuntarilyrelaxed his grasp and, dropping his own pistol, stumbled and halffell, half threw himself down to the next floor. 

As this happened, a white arm was levelled over the shoulder of P. Sybarite. 

The woman took deliberate aim, fired--and missed. 

XII

THE LADY OF THE HOUSE

Until that moment of the woman's shot, what with the failure of P. Sybarite's weapon to fire and the strange, muted coughing of theassassin's, an atmosphere of veritable decorum, nothing less, hadseemed to mark the triangular duel, lending it something of thefantastic quality of a nightmare: an effect to which the discovery ofa marauder, where P. Sybarite had expected to find nobody, addedmeasurably.... 

But now, temporarily blinded by that vicious bright blade of flamestabbing the gloom a hand's breadth from his eyes, and deafened by thecrash of the explosion not two feet from his ear-drums, he quickenedto the circumstances with much of the confusion of a man awakened by athunder-clap from evil dreams to realities yet more grim. 

Of a sudden he understood that murder had been attempted in hispresence and knowledge: a stark and hideous fact, jarring upon thesemi-humorous indulgence with which hitherto he had been inclined toregard the unfolding of this night of _outré_ adventure. Twice the manhad shot to kill with that singular weapon of silent deadliness--andboth times had missed his mark by the barest margin.... 

At once, like a demon of exceptional malignity, a breathless andoverpowering rage possessed P. Sybarite. Without the least hesitationhe stretched forth a hand, snatched the pistol from the grasp of thewoman--who seemed to relinquish it more through surprise thanwillingly--threw himself halfway down the stairs, and took a hastypot-shot at the man--almost invisible in the darkness as he roundedthe turn of the next flight. 

Missing, P. Sybarite flung on recklessly. As he gained the lowerfloor, the hall lights flashed up, switched on from the upper landingby the woman of the house. Thus aided, he caught another glimpse ofhis prey midway down the next flight, and checked to take a secondshot. 

Again he missed; and as the bullet buried itself in splinteringwainscoting, a cry of almost childish petulence escaped him. With butone thought, he hurled on, swung round to the head of the stairs, sawhis man at the bottom, pulled up to aim, and.... 

Beneath him a small rug slipped on polished parquetry of the landing. P. Sybarite's heels went up and his head down with a sickening thump. He heard his pistol explode once more, and again visioned a reelingfirmament fugitively coruscant with strange constellations. 

Then--bounding up with uncommon resiliency--he saw the street door ofthe house close behind the fugitive and heard the heavy slam of it. 

In another breath, pulling himself together, he was up and descendingthree and four steps at a stride. Reaching the door, he threw it openand himself heedlessly out and down a high stone stoop to thesidewalk--pulled up, bewildered to discover himself the sole livingthing visible in all that night-hushed stretch between Fifth Avenueand Sixth: of the assassin there was neither sign nor sound.... 

He felt perilously on the verge of tears--would gladly have bawled andhowled with temper--and gained little relief from another short-livedbreak of heartfelt profanity--something halting and inexpert, truth totell. 

Above him, on the stoop, the lady of the house appeared; paused topeer searchingly east and west; looked down at the trembling figure ofthe small man in his overgrown police tunic, shaking an impotent fistin the face of the City of New York; and laughed quietly to herself. 

"Come back, " she called in a guarded tone. "He's made a clean getaway. Got to hand him _that_. No use trying to follow--you'd never catch upin a thousand years. Come back--d'you hear?--and give me my gun!"

A trifle dashed, P. Sybarite raked the street with final reluctantglances; then in a spirit of witless and unquestioning docilityreturned. 

The woman retired to the vestibule, where she closed and locked thedoor as he passed through, further ensuring security by means of achain-bolt; then entering the hallway, closed, locked, and similarlybolted the inner doors. 

"Now, then!" she addressed the little man with a brilliant smile--"nowwe can pow-wow. Come into the den"--and led the way toward the rear ofthe house. 

Trotting submissively in her wake, his wrinkled nose and battingeyelids were eloquent of the dumb amaze with which he was reviewingthis incredible affair. 

Turning into a dark doorway, the woman switched light into an electricdome, illuminating an interior apartment transformed, by a wildlyoriginal taste in eccentric decoration, into a lounging room of suchdistressful uniquity that it would have bred unrest in the soul of alotus-eater. 

Black, red, and gold--lustreless black of coke, lurid crimson of freshblood, bright glaring yellow of gold new-minted--were the predominantnotes in a colour scheme at once sombre and violent. The walls werehung with scarlet tapestries whereon gold dragons crawled and foughtor strove to swallow dead black planets, while on every hand blackimps of Eblis writhed and struggled over golden screens, golden devilsmocked and mowed from panels of cinnabar, and horrific masks ofcrimson lacquer, picked out with gold and black, leered and snarleddumb menaces from darkened corners. 

In such a room as this the mildest mannered man, steeping his soul inthe solace of mellow tobacco, might have been pardoned for dreaminglustfully of battle, murder and sudden death, or for contemplatingwith entire equanimity the tortured squirmings of some favourite enemyupon the rack. 

"Cosy little hole, " P. Sybarite couldn't forbear to comment with ashudder as he dropped into a chair in compliance with the woman'sgesture. 

"I have my whims, " she said. "How would you like a drink?"

"Not at all, " he insisted hastily. "I've had all I need for the timebeing. "

"That's a mercy, " she replied. "I don't much feel like waiting on youmyself, and the servants are all abed. "

Offering cigarettes in a golden casket, she selected and lighted onefor herself. 

"You have servants in the house, then?"

"Do I look like a woman who does her own housework?"

"You do not, " he affirmed politely. "But can you blame me forwondering where your servants've been all through this racket?"

"They sleep on the top floor, behind sound-proof doors, " his hostessexplained complacently, "and have orders to answer only when I ring, even if they should happen to hear anything. I've a passion forprivacy in my own home--another whim, if you like. "

"It's nothing to me, I assure you, " he protested. "Minding my ownbusiness is one of the best little things I do. "

"If that's so, why do you walk uninvited into strange bedrooms at allhours, pretending to be a policeman, with a cock-and-bull yarn about aburglar--"

"But there was a burglar!" P. Sybarite contended brightly. "You sawhim yourself. "

"No. "

"But--but you _did_ see him--later, on the stairs!"

Smiling, the woman shook her head. "I saw no burglar--merely a dearfriend. In short, if it interests you to know, I saw my husband. "

"Madam!" P. Sybarite sat up with a shocked expression. 

"Oh, " said the woman lightly, "we're good enough for one another--heand I. He deserved what he got when he married me. But that's notsaying I'm content to see him duck what's coming to him for to-night'sdeviltry. In fact, I mean to get him before he gets me. Are you gameto lend me a hand?"

"Me, madam!" cried P. Sybarite in alarm. "Far be it from me to comebetween husband and wife!"

"Don't be afraid: I'm not asking you to dabble your innocent hands ina fellow-human's blood--merely to run an errand for me. "

"Really--I'd rather be excused. "

"Really, " she mocked pleasantly, "you won't be. I'm a gentle creaturebut determined--frail but firm, you know. Perhaps you've heard ofme--Mrs. Jefferson Inche?"

Decidedly he had; and so had nine-tenths of New York'snewspaper-reading population. His eyes widened with new interest. 

"Truly?" he said, civilly responsive to the challenge in herannouncement. "But _I_ never knew Mrs. Jefferson Inche was beautiful. "

"It needs a beautiful woman to be known as the most dangerous inTown, " she explained with modest pride. 

"But--ah--Mr. Inche, I understand, died some years ago. "

"So he did. "

"Yet you speak of your husband--?"

"Of my present husband, whose name I don't wear for reasons ofreal-estate. I took the rotter on because he's rich and will be richerwhen his father dies; he married me because he was rotten and I hadthe worst reputation he could discover. So we're quits _there_. If ourmarriage comes out prematurely, he'll be disinherited; so we've agreedto a _sub-rosa_ arrangement which leaves him, ostensibly, a marketablebachelor. Now, I happen to know a marriage has recently been offeredhim through which he would immediately come into control of a big potof money, and naturally he's strong for it. But I refused his offer ofa cool half-million to play the Reno circuit, and so he concluded tosue for a divorce with a revolver, a Maxim silencer, and a perfectalibi. Do you follow me?"

"As far as the alibi. "

"Oh, that's quite simple. We don't live together, and he's insure-enough society, and I'm not. To-night the annual Hadley-Owenpost-lenten masquerade's in full swing just around the corner, andfriend husband's there with the rest of the haughty bunch. Can't yousee how easy it would be for him to drop round here between dances, murder his lawful wedded wife, and beat it back, without his absenceever being noticed?"

"It does sound feasible, if--ah--sickening, " P. Sybarite admitted. "But really, it's hard to believe. Are you positive--?"

"I tell you, " said the woman impatiently, "I recognised him; I saw hismouth--his mask wouldn't hide that--and knew him instantly. "

P. Sybarite was silent: he, too, had recognized that mouth. 

Briefly he meditated upon this curious freak of _Kismet_ that waslinking his fortunes of the night with those of the man with thetwisted mouth. 

"Now you know the lay of the land--how about helping me out?"

Now the trail of the man with the twisted mouth promised fair to leadto Molly Lessing. P. Sybarite didn't linger on his decision. 

"I'm awf'ly impressionable, " he conceded with a sigh; "some day, I'mafraid, it'll get me in a peck of trouble. "

"I can count on you, then?"

"Short of trying a 'prentice hand at assassination--"

"Don't be an ass. I only want to protect myself. Besides, you can'trefuse. Consider how lenient I've been with you. "

P. Sybarite lifted questioning eyebrows, and dragged down the cornersof a dubious mouth. 

"If I wanted to be nasty, " Mrs. Inche explained, "you'd be on your waynow to a cell in the East Fifty-first Street station. But I wasgrateful. "

"The Saints be praised for that!" exclaimed the little man fervently. "What's it for?"

"For waking me up in time to prevent my murder in my sleep, " shereturned coolly; "and also for being the spunky little devil you areand chasing off that hound of a husband of mine. If it wasn't for you, he'd've got me sure. Or else, " she amended, "I'd've got him; whichwould have been almost as unpleasant--what with being pinched andtried and having juries disagree and getting off at last only on theplea of insanity--and all that. "

"Madam, " said P. Sybarite, rising, "the more I see of you, the moreyou claim my admiration. I entreat you, permit me to go away before myemotion deepens into disastrous infatuation. "

"Sit down, " countered Mrs. Inche amiably; "don't be afraid--I don'tbite. Now you know who I am, but before you go, I mean to know who youare. "

"Michael Monahan, madam. " This was the first alliterative combinationto pop into his optimistic mind. 

"Can that, " retorted the lady serenely--"solder it up tight, alongwith the business of pretending to be a cop. It won't get youanything. I've a proposition to make to you. "

"But, madam, " he declared with his naïf and disarming grin--"believeme--my young affections are already engaged. "

"You're not half the imbecile you make yourself out, " she judgedsoberly. "Come--what's your name?"

Taking thought, he saw no great danger in being truthful for once. 

"P. , unfortunately, Sybarite, " he said: "bookkeeper for Whigham andWimper--leather merchants, Frankfort Street. "

"And how did you come by that coat and hat?"

"Borrowed it from a drunken cop in Penfield's, a little while ago. They were raiding the place and I kind of wanted to get away. Strangeto say, my disguise didn't take, and I had to leave by way of the backfences in order to continue uninterrupted enjoyment of the inalienablerights of every American citizen--life, liberty, the pursuit ofhappiness. "

"I don't know why I believe you, " said Mrs. Inche reflectively, whenhe paused for breath. "Perhaps it's your spendthrift way withlanguage. Do you talk like that when sober?"

"Judge for yourself. "

"All right, " she laughed indulgently: "I believe everything you say. Now what'll you take to do me a service?"

"My services, madam, are yours to command: my reward--ah--your smile. "

"Bunk, " observed the lady elegantly. "How would a hundred look to you?Good, eh?"

"You misjudge me, " the little man insisted. "Money is really noobject. "

"Still"--she frowned in puzzlement--"I should think a clerk in theleather business--!"

"I'm afraid I've misled you. I should have said that I _was_ a clerkin the leather business until to-day. Now I happen to be independentlywealthy, a clerk no longer. "

"How's that--wealthy?"

"Came into a small fortune this evening--nothing immodest, but amplefor one of my simple tastes and modest ambitions. "

"I think, " announced the lady thoughtfully, "that you are one of theslickest young liars I ever listened to. "

"That must be considerable eminence, " considered P. Sybarite withhumility. 

"On the other hand, you're unquestionably a perfect little gentleman, "she pursued. "And anyhow I'm going to take you at your word and trustyou. If you ever change your mind about that hundred, all you've gotto do is to come back and speak for it.... Do I make you right? You'rewilling to go a bit out of your way to do me a favour to-night?"

"Or any other night. "

"Very well. " Mrs. Inche rose. "Wait here a moment. "

Wrapping her negligee round her, she swept magnificently out of the"den, " and a moment later again crossed P. Sybarite's range of visionas she ascended the stairs. Then she disappeared, and there wassilence in the house: a breathing spell which the little man strove toemploy to the best advantage by endeavouring to assort and rearrangehis sadly disordered impressions. 

Aware that he would probably do wisely to rise and flee the place, henone the less lingered, vastly intrigued and more than half inclinedto see the affair through to the end. 

His confused reverie was presently interrupted by the sound of thewoman's high, clear voice at a telephone located (he fancied)somewhere in the hallway of the second story. 

"Hello! Columbus, seven, four hundred, please.... Hello--Mason?... Taxicab, please--Mrs. Jefferson Inche.... Yes--charge.... Yes--immediately.... Thank you!"

A moment later she reappeared on the stairs, carrying a wrap of somesort over her arm: a circumstance which caused P. Sybarite uneasily towonder if she meant to push her notorious indifference to conventionto the limit of going out in a taxicab with no other addition to herairy costume than a cloak. 

But when she again entered the "den, " it proved to be a man's coat andsoft hat that she had found for him. 

"Get up, " she ordered imperiously, "and change to these before you getpinched for impersonating an officer. I've called a taxi for you, andthis is what I want you to do: go to Dutch House--that's a dive onFortieth Street--"

"I've heard of it, " nodded P. Sybarite. "Any sober man who stays awayfrom it is almost perfectly safe, I believe. "

"I'll back you to take care of yourself, " said the lady. "Ask for RedNovember.... You know who he is?"

"The gangster? Yes. "

"If he isn't in, wait for him if you wait till daylight--"

"Important as all that, eh?"

"It's life or death to me, " said Mrs. Inche serenely. "I've got tohave protection--you've seen yourself how had I need it. And thepolice are not for the likes of me. Besides, " she added with engagingcandour, "if I squeal and tell the truth, then friend husband will bedisinherited for sure, and I'll have had all my trouble for nothing. "

"You make it perfectly clear, Mrs. Inche.... And when I see Mr. RedNovember--?"

"Say to him three words: _Nella wants you_. He'll understand. Then youcan go home. "

"_If_ I get out alive. "

"You're safe if you don't drink anything there. "

"Doubtless; but I'll feel safer if you'll lend me the loan of thispretty toy, " said P. Sybarite, weighing in one hand her automaticpistol. 

"It's yours. "

"Anything in it?"

"Three shots left, I believe. No matter. I'll get you a handful ofcartridges and you can reload the clip in the taxicab. Not that you'relikely to need it at Dutch House. "

From the street rose the rumble of a motor, punctuated by a horn thathonked. 

"There's the cab, now, " announced Mrs. Inche briskly. "Shake yourselfout of that coat and into this--and hustle!"

"It's my impressionable nature makes all my troubles, " observed P. Sybarite disconsolately. "However... "

Shrugging into the coat Mrs. Inche held for him, he cocked the felthat jauntily on the side of his head. 

"Always, " he proclaimed with gesture--hand on heart--"always theladies' slave!"

XIII

RESPECTABILITY

But when it came to viscid second thought, alone in the gloom of anunsympathetic taxicab, P. Sybarite inclined to concede himself moreass than hero. It was all very well to say that, having spread hissails to the winds of _Kismet_, he was bound to let himself drift totheir vagrant humour: but there are certain channels of New York lifeinto which even the most courageous mariner were ill-advised toadventure under pilotage no more trustworthy than that of sufficientchampagne and a run of good luck. 

Dutch House in Fortieth Street, West, wore the reputation of being assinister a dive as ever stood cheek-by-jowl with Broadway and brazenlyflaunted an all-night liquor license in the face of law-abiding NewYork; of which it was said that no sober man ever went there, otherthan those who went to prey, and that no drunkard ever escaped from itunfleeced; haunt of the most deadly riff-raff to be found in Town, barring inmates of certain negro stews on the lower West Side and ofsome of the dens to which the sightseer does _not_ penetrate in thetour of Chinatown. 

Grim stories were current of men who had wandered thither in theircups, "for the lark of it, " only to return to consciousness daysafterwards, stripped, shorn, and shattered in health bodily andmental, to find themselves in some vile kennel miles from Dutch House;and of other men who passed once through its foul portals and--passedout a secret way, never to return to the ken of their friends.... 

Yet it stood, and it stands, waxing fat in the folly of man and hisgreed. 

And to this place P. Sybarite was travelling to deliver a message froma famous demi-rep to a notorious gang leader; with only a . 25 calibreColt's automatic and his native wit and audacity to guard the moderatefortune that he carried with him in cash--a single hundredth part ofwhich would have been sufficient to purchase his obliteration at thehands of the crew that ran the place. 

However, in their ignorance his safety inhered; and it was not reallynecessary that he advertise his swollen fortunes; and as for the goldin his trousers pocket--a ponderable weight, liable to chinktreacherously when he moved--P. Sybarite removed this and thoughtfullycached it under one of the cushions of his cab. It seemed a longchance to take with a hundred dollars: but a hundred dollars wasn't agreat deal, after all, to a man as flush as he; and better lose it all(said he) than make a noise like a peripatetic mint in a den ofthieves and worse.... 

The cab drawing up to the curb, out P. Sybarite hopped, a dollar inhand for the chauffeur, and the admonition: "I'm keeping you; waittill I come out, if I'm all night; and don't let your motor die, 'cause I _may_ be in a hurry. "

"Gotcha, " said the chauffeur tersely; pocketed the bill; lighted acigarette.... 

P. Sybarite held back an instant to inspect the approach. 

This being Sunday morning, Dutch House was decorously dull to thestreet; the doors to the bar closed, the lights within low and drowsy;even the side door, giving access to the "restaurant, " was closed muchof the time--when, that is to say, it wasn't swinging to admit anintermittent flow of belated casuals and habitués of both sexes. 

A row of vehicles lined the curb: nighthawk taxicabs for the mostpart, with one or two four-wheelers, as many disreputable anddilapidated hansoms, and (aside from that in which P. Sybarite hadarrived) a single taxicab of decent appearance. This last stood, withdoor ajar, immediately opposite the side entrance, its motor pulsingaudibly--evidently waiting under orders similar to those issued by P. Sybarite. 

Now as the latter advanced to enter Dutch House, shadows appeared onthe ground glass of the side door; and opening with a jerk, it let outa gush of fetid air together with Respectability on theprowl--Respectability incognito, sly, furtive of air, and innoticeable haste. 

He paused for a bare instant on the threshold; affording P. Sybariteopportunity for a good, long look. 

"Two-thirty, " said Respectability brusquely over his shoulder. 

The man behind him growled affirmation: "Two-thirty--don't worry: I'llbe on the job. "

"And take care of that boy. "

"Grab it from me, boss, when he wakes up, he won't know where he'sbeen. "

"Good-night, then, " said Respectability grudgingly. 

"G'd-night. "

The door closed, and with an ineradicable manner of weight andconsequence Respectability turned toward the waiting taxicab: a manof, say, well-preserved sixty, with a blowsy plump face and fat whiteside-whiskers, a fleshy nose and arrogant eyes, a double chin and aheavy paunch; one who, in brief, had no business in that galley atthat or any other hour of day or night, and who knew it and knew thatothers (worse luck!) would know it at sight. 

All this P. Sybarite comprehended in a glance and, comprehending, bristled like a truculent game-cock or the faithful hound in theghost-story. The aspect of Respectability seemed to have upon him theeffect of a violent irritant; his eyes took on a hot, hard look, hislips narrowed to a thin, inflexible crease, and his handsunconsciously closed. 

And as Respectability strode across the sidewalk, obviously intendingto bury himself in the body of his waiting cab as quickly as possible, P. Sybarite--with the impudence of a tug blocking the fairway for anocean liner--stepped in his path, dropped a shoulder, and planted bothfeet firmly. 

Immediately the two came together; the shoulder of P. Sybarite in thepaunch of Respectability, evoking a deep grunt of choleric surpriseand bringing the gentleman to an abrupt standstill. 

Upon this, P. Sybarite's mouth relaxed; he smiled faintly, almostplacatingly. 

"Well, old top!" he cried with malicious cordiality. "Who'd think tomeet _you_ here! What's the matter? Has high finance turned too riskyfor your stomach? Or are you dabbling in low-life for the sheer fun ofit--to titillate your jaded senses?"

Respectability's cheeks puffed out like red toy balloons; so likewisehis chest. 

"Sir!" he snorted--"you are drunk!"

"Sir!" retorted P. Sybarite, none too meekly--"you lie. "

The ebony-and-gold cane of Respectability quivered in mid-air. 

"Out of my way!"

"Put down that cane, Mr. Brian Shaynon, " said P. Sybarite peaceably, "unless you want me to play horse with you in a way to let all NewYork know how you spend the wee sma' hours!"

At the mention of his name Respectability stiffened in dismay. 

"Damnation!" he cried hoarsely. "Who are you?"

"Why, have you forgotten me? Careless of you, Mr. Shaynon. I'm thelittle guy that put the speck in Respectability: I'm the noisy littleskeleton in the cupboard of your conscience. Don't you know me now?"

With a gasp (prudently lowering his stick) Mr. Shaynon bent to peerinto the face exposed as P. Sybarite pushed back his hat; stared aninstant, goggling; wheeled about, and flung heavily toward histaxicab. 

"The Bizarre!" wheezed he to the chauffeur; and dodging in, banged thedoor. 

As for P. Sybarite, he watched the vehicle swing away and round thecorner of Seventh Avenue, a doubtful glimmer in eyes that had burnedhot with hostility, a slight ironic smile wreathing lips that hadshown hatred. 

"But what's the good of that?" he said in self-disgust, as the taxicabdisappeared. 

With a sigh, shaking himself together, he went into Dutch House. 

XIV

WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

From street door to restaurant entrance, the hallway of Dutch Housewas some twenty-five feet long, floored with grimy linoleum inimitation of tiling, greasy as to its walls and ceiling, and boastingan atmosphere rank with a reek compounded of a dozen elements, intheir number alcohol, cheap perfumery, cooked meats, the sweat ofunclean humanity, and stale tobacco smoke. 

Save for this unsavoury composite wraith, the hall was empty when P. Sybarite entered it. But it echoed with sounds of rowdy revelry fromthe room in back: mechanical clatter of galled and spavined piano, despondent growling of a broken-winded 'cello, nervous giggling andmoaning of an excoriated violin--the three wringing from the score of_O You Beautiful Doll_ an entirely adequate accompaniment to theperfunctory performance of a husky contralto. 

Though by no means squeamish, on the testimony of his nose and ears P. Sybarite then and there concluded that he would have to have becomeexceedingly blasé indeed to find Dutch House amusing. 

And when he had gone on into the restaurant itself, slipping hismodest person inconspicuously into a chair at the nearest unoccupiedtable, the testimony of his other senses as to the character of hiscompany served to confirm this impression. 

"It's no use, " he sighed: "I'm too old a dog.... Be it ever sotypical, there's _no_ place like one's own hash-foundry. " ... 

This room was broad and deep, and boasted, at its far end, a miniaturestage supporting the orchestra and, temporarily, the gyrations of alady in a vivacious scarlet costume--mistress of the shopworncontralto--who was "vamping with the feet" the interval between twoverses of her ballad. 

The main floor was strewn with tables round which sat a motleygathering of gangsters, fools, pretty iniquities and others by nostretch of the imagination to be termed pretty, confidence men, gambling touts, and the sprinkling of drunkards--plain, common, transient, periodical, suburban, habitual, and unconscious--for and bywhom the place was, and is, maintained. In and out among thesecirculated several able-bodied waiters with soiled shirt-bosoms, ironjaws and, not infrequently, cauliflower ears. 

Spying out P. Sybarite, one of these bore down upon him with an air ofthe most flattering camaraderie. 

It was true that the little man, in a dark coat and hat alike toolarge for him, with his shabby shoes and trousers and apologeticdemeanour, promised no very profitable plucking; but the rule of DutchHouse is to neglect none, however lowly. 

"Well, bo', " grunted the waiter cheerfully, polishing off the top ofthe table with a saturated towel, "yuh don't come round's often as y'uster. "

"That's a fact, " P. Sybarite agreed. "I've been a long timeaway--haven't I?"

"Yuh said somethin' _then_. Mus' be months sinst I seen yuh last. What's the trouble? Y' ain't soured on the old joint, huh?"

"No, " P. Sybarite apologised. "I've been--away. Where's Red?"

"MacManus--?" asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strangelittle creature must in fact be a "regular" of the "bunch"--one whosename and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory. 

"November, " P. Sybarite corrected. 

"Oh, he's stickin' round--pretty busy to-night. Wouldn't fuss him, 'fI was yuh, 'less it's somethin' extra. "

"I make you, " said the little man. "But this is his business. Tell himI have a message for him, will you?"

"Just as yuh say, bo', " returned the other cautiously. "What's itgoin' to be? Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?"

"Do I look like the foolish waters?" enquired P. Sybarite with mildresentment. "Back me up a shell of lather. "

Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glassof lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shoulderedthrough the swinging doors to the bar.... 

Then fell a brief lull in the mélange of music and tongues, duringwhich a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table somethree removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat:

"But I don't _want_ anything more to drink!"

P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now againdrowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years--not more--cleanof limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-lookingface, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips. 

Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with his hands in his pocketsand his head wagging obstinately, he was plainly intoxicated, but asyet at a stage sufficiently mild to admit of his recognising theself-evident truth that he needed not another drop. 

Yet his companions would have him drink more deeply. 

Of these, one was a woman of no uncertain caste, a woman handsome in adaring and costly gown, and as yet not old, but in whose eyesflickered a curious febrile glare ("as though, " commented P. Sybarite, moralist, "reflected back from the mouth of Hell"). 

The other was a man singularly handsome in a foreign way--Italian, atan indifferent guess--slight and graceful of person in well-tailoredif somewhat flashy clothing; boasting too much jewellery; his teethgleaming a vivid white against his dark colouring as he smiledgood-humouredly in his attempts to press more drink upon the other. 

The music stopped altogether for a time, and again the boy's voicerang out clearly:

"Tell you--'ve had enough. "

The Italian said something urgent, in an undertone. The woman addedinaudible persuasion to his argument. The boy looked from one toanother with a semi-stupid smile; but wagged an obdurate head. 

"I will _not_. No--and I don't want--lie down jus' for few minutes. I'm goin' sit here till these--ah--foolish legs 'mine straighten'emselves out--then 'm going home. " ... 

"Here's your beer, bo', " P. Sybarite's waiter announced. 

"Keep the change, " said the guest, tendering a quarter. 

"T'anks"--with a look of surprise. Then familiarly knuckling the topof the table, the waiter stroked a rusty chin and surveyed the room. "There's Red, now, " he observed. 

"Where?"

"Over there with the skirt and the kid souse. Yuh kin see for yourselfhe's busy. D' yuh want I sh'u'd stir him up now?"

"Oh, yes, " said P. Sybarite, in the tone of one recognising anoversight. "What's doing over there--anything?" he proceeded casually. 

The waiter favoured him with a hard stare. "Red November's businessain't none'r mine, " he growled; "an' less you know him a heluva sightbetter'n I do, you'd better take a straight tip from meand--_leave--it--lay_!"

"Oh!" said the little man hastily--"I was only wondering.... But Iwish you would slip Red the high sign: all I want is one word withhim. "

"All right, bo'--you're on. "

Slouching off, obviously reluctant to interrupt the diversions of Mr. November, the man at length mustered up courage to touch thatgentleman's elbow. The gangster turned sharply, a frown replacing thesmile which had illuminated his attempts to overcome the boy'srecently developed aversion to drink. The waiter murmured in hisprivate ear. 

Promptly P. Sybarite received a sharp look from eyes as black and hardas shoe buttons; and with equanimity endured it--even went to thelength of a nod accompanied by his quaint, ingratiating smile. Acourtesy ignored completely: the dark eyes veered back to the waiter'sface and the white teeth flashed as he was curtly dismissed. 

He shuffled back, scowling, reported sulkily: "Says yuh gotta wait";and turned away in answer to a summons from another table. 

Unruffled, P. Sybarite sipped his beer--sipped it sparingly and notwithout misgivings, but sedulously to keep in character as a familiarof the dive. 

Presently there came yet another lull in the clatter of tongues; andagain the accents of the boy sounded distinctly from the gangster'stable:

"I won't--that's flat! I refuse positively--go up stairs--sleep itoff. I'm a' right--give you m' word--in the _head_. All mytrouble's--these mutinous dogs of legs. But I'll make 'em mind, yet. Trust me--"

And again the babel blotted out his utterance. 

But P. Sybarite had experienced a sudden rush of intelligence to thehead--was in the throes of that mental process which it is our habitwittily to distinguish by the expressive term, "putting two and twotogether. "

Could this, by any chance, be "that boy" who, Mr. Brian Shaynon hadbeen assured, wouldn't know where he'd been when he waked? Was anattempt to ensure that desired consummation through the agency of adrug, being made in the open restaurant?

If not, why was Red November neglecting all other affairs to pressdrink upon a man who knew when he had enough?

If so, what might be the nature of the link connecting the boy withthe "job, " to be on which at half-past two November had just nowcovenanted with Brian Shaynon?

What incriminating knowledge could this boy possess, to render oldShaynon, willing that his memory should be expurgated by such amind- and nerve-shattering agent as the knock-out drop of White Lightcommerce?

Now Shaynon was capable of almost any degree of infamy, if not, perhaps, the absolute peer of Red November. 

This strange development of that night of Destiny began to assume inP. Sybarite's esteem a complexion of baleful promise. 

But the more keenly interested he grew, the more indifferent he madehimself appear, slouching low and lower in his chair, his eyeslistless and half closed--his look one of the most pronounced apathy:the while he conned the circumstances, physical as well as psychical, with the narrowest attention. Certainly, it would seem, a man who hadenough instinctive decency to wish to escape the degradation of deeperdrunkenness, should be humoured rather than opposed.... 

The table on which his attention was focussed stood against the wall, the young man sitting in the corner between November and the woman. Oftwo tables between it and P. Sybarite's, one was vacant, the otheroccupied by a brace of hatchet-faced male intimates of the dive andcreatures of November's--or their looks libelled them shamefully. 

It seemed unlikely that the boy could get away against the wishes ofthe gang leader, however steadfastly he might stand upon hisdetermination to drink no more. For nothing was to be hoped for fromthe sots, prostitutes, and parasites who made up the balance of thatcompany: one and all, either too indifferent or too sophisticated, ifnot in active sympathy with the practices of the establishment, tolift a hand to interfere.... 

Testimony in support of this inference P. Sybarite received within thenext few minutes, when the boy's temper abruptly veered fromgood-natured obduracy to open irritation. 

"Damn it, no!" he cried in a high voice and with an impatient movementstruck the glass from November's hand. 

Though it went to the floor with a splintering crash, the incidentattracted little more than casual glances from those at neighbouringtables.... 

November's countenance, however, turned grey with anger beneath itsolive shade. 

Momentarily his glance clashed with the woman's; and of a sudden thepaint upon her cheeks and lips stood out as starkly artificial ascarmine splashed upon a whitewashed wall. At the same time he flasheda like warning to his two followers at the next table; and the legs oftheir chairs grated on the tiled flooring as they shifted position, making ready for the signal to "mix in. "

At this, P. Sybarite rose and nonchalantly moved over to November; hisapproach remarked by the latter with an evil leer; by the woman with astart of consternation; by the boy with sudden suspicion. Indubitablythis last was beginning to question a hospitality that would notpermit him to do as to him seemed best. With relief P. Sybarite notedsymptoms of this dawning distrust. It made the problem simpler, tohave the boy alive to his peril. 

Pausing, P. Sybarite met November's glare with eyes informed with anexpression amazingly remote and dispassionate, and in a level andtoneless voice addressed him. 

"I've a message for you--a hurry call--won't keep--"

"Well?" snapped the gangster. "What's it about? Spit it out!"

"Why, Nella says--" P. Sybarite began deliberately; and paused tocough politely behind his hand; and leaned confidentially over thetable. 

At this juncture the boy pushed back his chair and rose. 

"Pardon me, m' dear, " he said thickly to the woman; "'m goin' home. "

"Ah, sit down, " November interrupted quickly, pitching his proteanaccents to a key of cajolery--"sit down and have another. What's yourhurry?"

His eyes caught the woman's. 

"That's right, dearie, " she chimed in hurriedly, laying a softdetaining hand on the boy's forearm. "Be a good fellow. Stake me tojust one more pint--"

"No, " the boy insisted, shaking free--"I'm going home. Le' me alone. "

"Nella, " P. Sybarite interpolated in an imperative tone, momentarilydistracting November's attention--"Nella says to tell you she wantsyou--now--immediately. Do you get that?"

"Damn Nella!" snapped the gang leader. "Tell her to go to the devil. And you"--he menaced P. Sybarite with a formidable look--"you slideouta here--in a hurry! See?"

With this, rising in his place, he put forth a hand to detain the boy, who was sullenly pushing past the woman. 

"Wait!" he insisted. "You can't go before you pay up--"

Whipping from his pocket a note (of what denomination he neverknew--but it was large) P. Sybarite slapped it down upon the table. 

"That'll pay whatever he owes, " he announced, and to the boy: "Clearout--quick--do you hear!--while you've got a chance--"

"What t'ell business is it of yours?" November demanded, turning uponhim furiously. 

With an enigmatic smile, P. Sybarite dexterously tipped up his side ofthe table and, overturning it, caught the gangster unprepared for anysuch manoeuvre and pinned him squirming in the angle of wall andfloor. 

Immediately the woman came to her feet shrieking; while the little manseized the befuddled boy and swung him toward the door actually beforehe realised what was happening. 

Simultaneously, November's henchmen at the adjoining table leapt intothe brawl with an alacrity that sent their chairs clattering back uponthe floor. 

But in his magnificent assurance P. Sybarite had foreseen and plannedcunningly against precisely that same contingency. No sooner had hesent the boy staggering on his way than he whirled completely roundwith a ready guard--and in no more than the very wink of exigence. 

Already one of the creatures was almost on his back--the other hangingoff and singularly employed (it seemed, considering) with his hands;just what he was up to P. Sybarite had time neither to see nor tosurmise. 

Sidestepping a wild swing, he planted a left full on the nose of thenearer assailant and knocked him backwards over a sprawling chair. Then turning attention to the other, he was barely in time to duck anuppercut--and out of the corners of his eyes caught the glint ofbrass-knuckles on the fist that failed to land. 

Infuriated, he closed in, sent a staggering left to the thug's heartand a murderous right to his chin, so that he reeled and fell as ifshot--while P. Sybarite with a bound again caught the boy by the armand whirled him out through the doorway into the hall. 

"Hurry!" he panted. "We've one chance in ten thousand--"

Beyond doubt they had barely that. 

Hardened though they were to scenes of violence, the clients of thedive had stilled in apprehension the moment November lifted his voicein anger; while P. Sybarite's first overtly offensive move had struckthem all dumb in terror. 

Red November was one who had shot down his man in cold blood on thesteps of the Criminal Courts Building and, through the favour of TheOrganisation that breeds such pests, escaped scot-free under theconvenient fiction of "suspended sentence"; and knowing well thenature and the power of the man, the primal concerted thought had beento flee the place before bullets began to fly. In blind panic likethat of sheep, they rose as one in uproar and surged toward the outerdoors. November himself, struggling up from beneath the table, wascaught and swept on willy-nilly in the front rank of the stampede. Ina thought he found himself wedged tight in a press clogging the door. Before his enraged vision P. Sybarite was winning away with the boy. 

Maddened, the gang leader managed to free his right arm and send ahaphazard shot after them. 

Only the instinctive recoil of those about him deflected his aim. 

The report was one with a shock of shattered plate-glass: thesoft-nosed bullet, splashing upon the glazed upper half of the door, caused the entire pane to collapse and disappear with the quickness ofmagic. 

Halting, P. Sybarite wheeled and dropped a hand to the pocket whereinrested Mrs. Inche's automatic. 

"Get that door open!" he cried to the boy. "I've got a taxi waiting--"

His words were drowned out by the thunderous detonations set up by asecond shot in that constricted space. 

With a thick sob, the boy reeled and swung against the wall as sharplyas though he had been struck with a sledge-hammer. 

Whimpering with rage, P. Sybarite tugged at the weapon; but it stuckfast, caught the lining of his coat-pocket. 

Most happily before he could get it in evidence, the door was thrustsharply in, and through it with a rush materialised that most rare ofmetropolitan phenomena--the policeman on the spot. 

Young and ardent, with courage as unique as his ubiquity, he blusteredin like a whirlwind, brushing P. Sybarite to one side, the wounded boyto the other, and pausing only a single instant to throw back theskirts of his tunic and grasp the butt of the revolver in hiship-pocket, demanded in the voice of an Irish stentor:

"_What's-all-this? What's-all-this-now?_"

"Robbery!" P. Sybarite replied, mastering with difficulty a giggle ofhysterical relief. "Robbery and attempted murder! Arrest that man--RedNovember--with the gun in his hand. "

With an inarticulate roar, the patrolman swung on toward thegangster--and P. Sybarite plucked the boy by the sleeve and drew himquickly to the sidewalk. 

By the never-to-be-forgotten grace of _Kismet_ his taxicab wasprecisely where he had left it, the chauffeur on the seat. 

"Quick!" he ordered the reeling boy--"into that cab unless you want tobe treated by a Bellevue sawbones--held as a witness besides. Are youbadly hurt?"

"Not badly, " gasped the boy--"shot through the shoulder--can wait fortreatment--must keep out of the papers--"

"Right!" P. Sybarite jerked open the door, and his charge stumbledinto the cab. "Drive anywhere--like sin, " he told the chauffeur--"tellyou where to stop when we get clear of this mess--"

Privately he blessed that man; for the cab was in motion almost beforehe could swing clear of the sidewalk. He tumbled in upon the floor, and picked himself up in time to close the door only when they wereswinging on two wheels round the corner of Seventh Avenue. 

XV

SUCH STUFF AS PLOTS ARE MADE OF

"How is it?" P. Sybarite asked solicitously. 

"Aches, " replied the boy huddled in his corner of the cab. 

Then he found spirit enough for a pale, thin smile, faintly visible ina milky splash from an electric arc rocking by the vehicle in itsflight. 

"Aches like hell, " he added. "Makes one feel a bit sickish. "

"Anything I can do?"

"No--thanks. I'll be all right--as soon as I find a surgeon to drawthat slug and plaster me up. "

"That's the point: where am I to take you?"

"Home--the Monastery--Forty-third Street. "

"Bachelor apartments?"

"Yes; I herd by my lonesome. "

"Praises be!" muttered P. Sybarite, relieved. 

For several minutes he had been entertaining a vision of himselfescorting this battered and bloody young person to a home of shriekingfeminine relations, and poignantly surmising the sort of welcome aptto be accorded the good Samaritan in such instances. 

And while he was about it, he took time briefly to offer up thanksthat the shock of his wound seemed to have sobered the boy completely. 

Opening the door, he craned his neck out to establish communicationwith the ear of the chauffeur; to whom he repeated the address, addingan admonition to avoid the Monastery until certain he had shaken offpursuit, if any; and dodged back. 

At this juncture the taxicab was slipping busily up Eighth Avenue, having gained that thoroughfare via Forty-first Street. A little laterit turned eastwards.... 

"No better, I presume?" P. Sybarite enquired. 

"Not so's you'd notice it, " the boy returned bravely.... "First timeanything like this ever happened to me, " he went on. "Funnysensation--precisely as if somebody had lammed me for a home run--witha steel girder for a bat ... "

"Must be tough!" said P. Sybarite blankly, experiencing a qualm at thethought of a soft-nosed bullet mushrooming through living flesh. 

"Guess I can stand it.... Where are we?"

P. Sybarite took observations. "

"Forty-seventh, near Sixth Avenue, " he reported finally. 

"Good: we'll be home in five minutes. "

"Think you can hold out that long?"

"Sure--got to; if I keel over before we reach my digs ... Chances areit'll get you into trouble ... Besides, I want to fight shy of thepapers ... No good airing this scandal ... "

"None whatever, " affirmed P. Sybarite heartily. "But--how did you getinto it?"

"Just by way of being a natural-born ass. "

"Oh, well! If it comes to that, I admit it's none of my business--"

"The deuce it isn't! After all you've done for me! Good Lord, man, where _would_ I be... !"

"Sleeping the sleep of the doped in some filthy corner of Dutch House, most likely. "

"And you saved me from that!"

"And got this hole drilled through you instead. "

"Got me away; I'd've collected the lead anyhow--wasn't meaning to staywithout a fight. "

"Then you weren't as drunk as you seemed?"

"Didn't you catch me making a move the minute you created a diversion?Of course, I'd no idea you were friendly--"

"Look here, " P. Sybarite interrupted sharply: "doesn't it hurt you totalk?"

"No--helps me forget this ache. "

"All right, then--tell me how this came about. What has Red Novembergot on you, to make him so anxious--?"

"Nothing, as far as I know; unless it was Brian Shaynon's doing--"

"A-ah!"

"You know that old blighter?"

"Slightly--very slightly. "

"Friend of yours?"

"Not exactly. "

The accent of P. Sybarite's laugh rendered the disclaimer conclusive. 

"Glad to hear that, " said the boy gravely: "I'd despise to be beholdento any friend of his ... "

"Well.... But what's the trouble between you and old man Shaynon?"

"Search me--unless he thought I was spying on him. I say!" the boyexclaimed excitedly--"what business could he have had with RedNovember there, to-night?"

"That _is_ a question, " P. Sybarite allowed. 

"Something urgent, I'll be bound!--else he wouldn't ever have daredshow his bare map in that dump. "

"One would think so.... "

"I'd like to figure this thing out. Perhaps you can help. To beginwith--I went to a party to-night. "

"I know, " said P. Sybarite, with a quiet chuckle: "the Hadley-Owenmasquerade. "

"How did you know?"

"_Kismet!_ It had to be. "

"Are you by any chance--mad?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, I'm a bit mad I wasn't invited. Everybody I know or meet--almost--is either bidden to that party orknows somebody who is. Forgive the interruption.... Anyway, " he added, "we're here. "

The taxicab was drawing up before an apartment house entrance. 

Hastily recovering his hoard of gold-pieces, P. Sybarite jumped outand presented one to the driver. 

"Can't change that, " said the latter, staring. "Besides, this was acharge call. "

"I know, " said P. Sybarite apologetically; "but this is for you. "

"Good God!" cried the chauffeur. 

"And yet, " mused P. Sybarite, "they'd have you believe all taxicabchauffeurs mercenary!"

Recklessly he forced the money into the man's not altogetherinhospitable palm. 

"For being a good little tight-mouth, " he explained gravely. 

"Forever and ever, amen!" protested the latter fervently. "And thank_you_!"

"If you're satisfied, we're quits, " returned P. Sybarite, offering ahand to the boy. 

"I can manage, " protested this last, descending without assistance. "And it's better so, " he explained as they crossed to the door; "Idon't want the hallboys here to suspect--and I can hold up a fewminutes longer, never fear. "

"Business of taking off my hat to you, " said P. Sybarite in unfeignedadmiration; "for pure grit, you're a young wonder. "

A liveried hallboy opened the door. A second waited in the elevator. Promptly ascending, they were set down at one of the upper floors. 

Throughout the boy carried himself with never a quiver, hiscountenance composed and betraying what pain he suffered only to eyeskeen to discern its trace of pallor. Now as he left the elevator andfitted a key to the lock of his private front door, he addressed theattendant, over his shoulder, in a manner admirably casual:

"By the way, Jimmy--"

"Sir?"

"Call up Dr. Higgins for me. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Tell him I've an attack of indigestion and will be glad if he'll turnout and see if he can't fix me up for the night. "

"Very good, Mr. Kenny. "

The gate clanged and the cage dropped from sight as Mr. Kenny openedthe door and stood aside to let P. Sybarite precede him. 

"Rot!" objected the little man forcibly. "Go in and turn up thelights. Punctilio from a man in your condition--!"

The boy nodded wearily, passed in, and switched up the lights in acomfortably furnished sitting-room. 

"As a matter of fact, " he said thoughtfully, when P. Sybarite hadfollowed him in and shut the door--"I'm wondering how much of a bluffI may be, after all. "

"Meaning--?"

"By all literary precedent I ought to faint now, after my magnificentexhibition of superhuman endurance. But I'm not going to. "

"That's rather sporting of you, " P. Sybarite grinned. 

"Not at all; I just don't want to--don't feel like it. That sickfeeling is gone--nothing but a steady agony like a hot iron through myshoulder--something any man with teeth to grit could stand. "

"We'll find out soon enough. I don't pretend to be any sort of a dabat repairs on punctured humanity, but I read enough popular fictionmyself to know that the only proper thing to do is to ruin thathandsome coat of yours by cutting it off your back. We can anticipatethe doctor to that extent, at least. "

"That's one thing, at least, that the popular novelist knows _right_, "asserted Mr. Kenny with conviction. "Sorry for the coat--but you'llfind scissors yonder, on my desk. "

And when P. Sybarite fetched them, he sat himself sideways in astraight-backed chair and cheerfully endured the little man'simpromptu essays in first-aid measures. 

A very little snipping and slashing sufficed to do away with theshoulder and sleeve of the boy's coat and to lay open his waistcoat aswell, exposing a bloodstained shirt. And then, at the instant when P. Sybarite was noting with relief that the stain showed both in back andin front, the telephone shrilled. 

"If you don't mind answering that--" grunted Mr. Kenny. 

P. Sybarite was already at the instrument. 

"Yes?" he answered. "Dr. Higgins?"

"Sorry, sir, " replied a strange voice: "Dr. Higgins isn't in yet. Anymessage?"

"Tell him Mr. Kenny needs him at the Monastery, and the matter'surgent.... Doctor not in, " he reported superfluously, returning to cutaway collar, tie, shirt, and undershirt. "Never mind, I shouldn't besurprised if we could manage to do without him, after all. "

"Meaning it's not so bad--?"

"Meaning, " said the other, exposing the naked shoulder, "I'm beginningto hope you've had a marvellously narrow escape. "

"Feels like it, " said Kenny, ironic. 

P. Sybarite withheld response while he made close examination. At thebase of Mr. Kenny's neck, well above the shoulder-blade, dark bloodwas welling slowly from an ugly puncture. And in front there was acorresponding puncture, but smaller. And presently his deft and gentlefingers, exploring the folds of the boy's undershirt, closed upon thebullet itself. 

"I don't believe, " he announced, displaying his find, "you deservesuch luck. Somehow you managed to catch this just right for it to slipthrough without either breaking bone or severing artery. And by aspecial dispensation of an all-wise Providence, Red November must havebeen preoccupied when he loaded that gun, for somehow a steel-jacketedinstead of a soft-nosed bullet got into the chamber he wasted on you. Otherwise you'd have been pretty badly smashed. As it is, you'llprobably be laid up only a few days. "

"I told you I wasn't so badly hurt--"

"God's good to the Irish. Where's your bathroom?"

With a gesture Kenny indicated its location. 

"And handkerchiefs--?"

"Upper bureau drawer in the bedroom. "

In a twinkling P. Sybarite was off and back again with materials foran antiseptic wash and a rude bandage. 

"How'd you know I was Irish?" demanded the patient. 

"By yoursilf's name, " quoth P. Sybarite in a thick brogue as naturalas grass, while he worked away busily. "'Tis black Irish, and well Iknow it. 'Twas me mither's maiden name--Kenny. She had a brother, Michael he was and be way av bein' a rich conthractor in this verytown as ever was, befure he died--God rist his sowl! He left twochildren--a young leddy who mis-spells her name M-a-e A-l-y-s--keepstill!--and Peter, yersilf, me cousin, if it's not mistaken I am. "

"The Lord save us!" said the boy. "You're never Percy Sybarite!"

P. Sybarite winced. "Not so loud!" he pleaded in a stage whisper. "Some one might hear you. "

"What the devil's the matter with you?"

"I am that man you named--but, prithee, Percy me no Percevals, an'you'd be my friend. For fifteen years I've kept my hideous secretwell. If it becomes public now ... "

Peter Kenny laughed in spite of his pain. 

"I'll keep your secret, too, " he volunteered, "since you feel that wayabout it.... But, I say: what have you been doing with yourselfsince--since--" He stammered. 

"Since the fall of the House of Sybarite?"

"Yes. I didn't know you were in New York, even. "

"Your mother and Mae Alys knew it--but kept it quiet, the same as me, "said the little man. 

"But--well--what _have_ you been doing, then?"

"Going to and fro like a raging lion--more or less--seeking what Imight devour. "

"And the devourings have been good, eh? You're high-spirited enough. "

"I think, " said P. Sybarite quietly--"I may say--though you can't seeit--that my present smile would, to a shrewd observer, seem toindicate I'd swallowed a canary-bird ... A nice, fat, goldencanary-bird!" he repeated, smacking his lips with unction. 

"You talk as if you'd swallowed a dictagraph, " said Peter Kenny. 

"It's my feeling, " sighed P. Sybarite. "But yourself? Let's see; whenI saw you last you were the only authentic child pest of your day andgeneration--six or seven at most. How long have you been out ofcollege?"

"A year--not quite. "

"And sporting bachelor rooms of your own!"

"I'm of age. Besides, if you must know, mother and Mae Alys are bothdotty on the society game, and I'm not. I won't be rushed round topink teas and--and all that sort of thing. "

"Far more wholesome than pink whiskeys at Dutch House. "

"You don't understand--"

"No; but I mean to. There!" announced P. Sybarite, finishing thebandage with a tidy flat knot--make yourself comfortable on thatcouch, tell me where you keep your whiskey, and I'll mix myself adrink and listen to your degrading confession.... 

"Now, " he added, when Peter Kenny, stretched out on the couch, hadsuffered himself to be covered up--"not being an M. D. , I've noconscience at all about letting you talk yourself to death; eatenalive as I am with curiosity; and knowing besides that you can't killa Kenny but with kindness. "

"You'll find the whiskey on the buffet, " said the boy. 

"Obliged to you, " P. Sybarite replied, finding it. 

"And I suppose I--"

"You're quite right; you've had enough. Alcohol is nothing to helpmend a wound. If your friend Higgins permits it, when he comes--welland good.... Meanwhile, " he added, taking a seat near the head of thecouch, and fixing his youthful relation with a stern enquiringeye--"what were you doing in Dutch House the night?"

"I've been trying to tell you--"

"And now you must.... Is there a cigar handy?... Thanks.... Thiswhiskey is prime stuff.... Go on. I'm waiting. "

"Well, " Peter Kenny confessed sheepishly. "I'm in love--"

"And you proposed to her to-night at the ball?"

"Yes, and--"

"She refused you. "

"Yes, but--"

"So you decided to do the manly thing--go out and pollute yourselfwith drink?"

"That's about the size of it, " Peter admitted, shamefaced. 

"It's no good reason, " announced P. Sybarite. "Now, if you'd beencelebrating your happy escape, I'd be the last to blame you. "

"You don't understand, and you won't give me a chance--"

"I'm waiting--all ears--but not the way _you_ mean. "

"It wasn't as if she'd left me any excuse to hope ... But she told meflat she didn't care for me. "

"That's bad, Peter. Forgive my ill-timed levity: I didn't mean itmeanly, boy, " P. Sybarite protested. 

"It's worse than you think, " Peter complained. "I can stand her notcaring for me. Why should she?"

"Why, indeed?"

"It's because she's gone and promised to marry Bayard Shaynon. "

P. Sybarite looked dazed. 

"She? Bayard Shaynon? Who's the girl?"

"Marian Blessington. Why do you ask? Do you know her?"

There was a pause. P. Sybarite blinked furiously. 

"I've heard that name, " he said quietly, at length. "Isn't she oldBrian's ward--the girl who disappeared recently?"

"She didn't disappear, really. She's been staying with friends--toldme so herself. That's all the foundation the _Journal_ had for itsstory. "

"Friends?"

"So she said. "

"Did she name them?"

"No--"

"Or say where?"

"No; but some place out of town, of course. "

"Of course, " P. Sybarite repeated mechanically. He eyed fixedly theash on the end of his cigar. "And she told you she meant to marryBayard Shaynon, did she!"

"She said she'd promised.... And that, " the boy broke out, "was whatdrove me crazy. He's--he's--well, you know what he is. "

"His father's son, " said P. Sybarite gloomily. 

"He was there to-night--the old man, too; and after what Marian hadtold me, I just couldn't trust myself to meet or speak to either ofthem. So I bolted back here, took a stiff drink, changed from costumeto these clothes, and went out to make a besotted ass of myself. Naturally I landed in Dutch House. And there--the first thing Inoticed when I went in was old Shaynon, sitting at the same table youtook, later--waiting. Imagine my surprise--I'd left him at the Bizarrenot thirty minutes before!"

"I'm imagining it, Peter. Get ahead. "

"I hailed him, but he wouldn't recognise me--simply glared. PresentlyRed November came in and they went upstairs together. So I stuckaround, hoping to get hold of Red and make him drunk enough to talk. Curiously enough when Shaynon left, Red came directly to my table andsat down. But by that time I'd had some champagne on top of whiskeyand was beginning to know that if I pumped in anything more, it'd beNovember's party instead of mine. And when he tried to insist on mydrinking more, I got scared--feeling what I'd had as much as I did. "

"You're not the fool you try to seem, " P. Sybarite conceded. "I heardNovember promise Shaynon, at the door, that you wouldn't remember muchwhen you came to. The old scoundrel didn't want to be seen--hadn'texpected to be recognised and, when he found you'd followed, plannedto fix things so that you'd never tell on him. "

"But _why_?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. There's some sort of shenaniganbrewing, or my first name's Peter, the same as yours--which I wish itwas so.... Be quiet a bit and let me think. "

For a little while P. Sybarite sat pondering with vacant eyes; and thewounded boy stared upward with a frown, as though endeavouring topuzzle the answer to this riddle out of the blankness of the ceiling. 

"What time does this Hadley-Owen party break up?"

"Not till daylight. It's the last big fixture of the social season, and ordinarily they keep it up till sunrise. "

"It'll be still going, then?"

"Strong. They'll be in full swing, now, of after-supper dancing. "

"That settles it: I'm going. "

The boy lifted on his elbow in amaze, then subsided with a grunt ofpain. 

"_You're_ going?"

"You say you've got a costume of some sort here? I'll borrow it. We'remuch of a size. "

"Heaven knows you're welcome, but--"

"But what?"

"You have no invitation. "

Rising, P. Sybarite smiled loftily. "Don't worry about that. If Ican't bribe my way past a cordon of mercenary foreign waiters--andtalk down any other opposition--I'm neither as flush as I think nor asIrish. "

"But what under the sun do you want there?"

"To see what's doing--find out for myself what devilment BrianShaynon's hatching. Maybe I'll do no good--and maybe I'll be able toput a spoke in his wheel. To do that--once--_right_--I'd be willing todie as poor as I've lived till this blessed night!"

He paused an instant on the threshold of his cousin's bedroom; turnedback a sombre visage. 

"I've little love for Brian Shaynon, myself, or none. You know what hedid to me--and mine. "

XVI

BEELZEBUB

Late enough in all conscience was the last guest to arrive for theHadley-Owen masquerade. 

Already town-cars, carriages, and private 'busses were being calledfor and departing with their share of the more seasoned andsober-sided revellers, to whom bed and appetite for breakfast had cometo mean more than a chance to romp through a cotillion by the light ofthe rising sun--to say discreetly little or nothing of those otherconveyances which had borne away _their_ due proportion of far lesssage and by no means sober-sided ones, who yet retained sufficientsense of the fitness of things to realise that bed followed bymatutinal bromides would be better for them than further dalliancewith the effervescent and evanescent spirits of festivity. 

More and more frequently the elevators, empty but for theirattendants, were flying up to the famous ball-room floor of theBizarre, to descend heavy-laden with languid laughing parties ofgaily-costumed ladies and gentlemen no less brilliantlyattired--prince and pauper, empress and shepherdess, monk, milkmaid, and mountebank: all weary yet reluctant in their going. 

And at this hour a smallish gentleman, in an old-style Invernessopera-coat that cloaked him to his ankles, with an opera hat setjauntily a wee bit askew on his head, a mask of crimson silk coveringhis face from brows to lips, slipped silently like some sly, sinistershadow through the Fifth Avenue portals of the Bizarre, and shaped acourse by his wits across the lobby to the elevators, so discreetlyand unobtrusively that none of the flunkeys in attendance noticed hisarrival. 

In effect, he didn't arrive at all, but suddenly was there. 

A car, discharging its passengers before the smallish gentleman couldcatch the eye of its operator, flew suddenly upward in the echo of agate slammed shut in his face; and all the other cars were still atthe top, according to the bronze arrows of their tell-tale dials. Thelate arrival held up patiently; but after an instant's deliberation, doffed his hat, crushed it flat, slipped out of his voluminous cloak, and beckoned a liveried attendant. 

In the costume thus disclosed, he cut an impish figure: "Satan on thehalf-shell, " Peter Kenny had christened him. 

A dress coat of black satin fitted P. Sybarite more neatly than himfor whom it had been made. The frilled bosom of his shirt was set withwinking rubies, and the lace cuffs at his wrists were caught togetherwith rubies--whether real or false, like coals of fire: and ruby wasthe hue both of his satin mask and his satin small-clothes. Buckles ofred paste brilliants burned on the insteps of his slender polishedshoes with scarlet heels; and his snug black silk stockings set offankles and calves so well-turned that the Prince of Sin himself mighthave taken pride in them. For boutonnière he wore a smoulderingember--so true an imitation that at first he himself had hesitated totouch it. Literally to crown all, his ruddy hair was twisted upwardfrom each temple in a cornuted fashion that was most vividlypicturesque. 

"Here, " he said, surrendering hat and coat to the servitor before thelatter could remonstrate--"take and check these for me, please. Ishan't be going for some time yet. "

"Sorry, sir, but the cloak-room down 'ere 's closed, sir. You'll haveto check them on the ball-room floor above. "

"No matter, " said the little man: and groping in a pocket, he produceda dollar bill and tendered it to ready fingers; "you keep 'em for me, down here. It'll save time when I'm ready to go. "

"Very good, sir. Thank you. "

"You won't forget me?"

The flunkey grinned. "You're the only gentleman I've seen to-night, sir, in a costume anything like your own. "

"There's but one of me in the Union, " said the gentleman, sententious:"my spear knows no brother. "

"Thank you, sir, " said the servant civilly, making off. 

With an air of some dubiety, the little man watched him go. 

"I say!" he cried suddenly--"come back!"

He was obeyed. 

A second dollar bill appeared as it were by magic between his fingers. The flunkey stared. 

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Take it"--impatiently. 

"Thank you. " The well-trained fingers executed their most familiarmanoeuvre. "But--m'y I ask, sir--wot's it for?"

"You called me a gentleman just now. "

"Yes, sir. "

"You were right. "

"Quite so, sir. "

"The devil _is_ a gentleman, " the masquerader insisted firmly. 

"So I've always 'eard, sir. "

"Then you may go; you've earned the other dollar. "

Obsequiousness stared: "M'y I ask, 'ow so?"

"By standing for that antediluvian bromidiom. I had to get it off mychest to somebody, or else blow up. Far better to hire an audiencewhen you can't be original. Remember that; you've been paid: youdaren't object. "

"Thankyousir, " said the lackey blankly. 

"And now--avaunt--before I brand thee for mine own!"

The little gentleman flung out an imperative, melodramatic arm; andveritable sparks sprayed from his crackling finger-tips. The servantretired in haste and dismay. 

"'E's balmy--or screwed--or the Devil 'imself!" he muttered.... 

Beneath his mask the little man grinned privately at the man'sretreat. 

"Piker!" said he severely--"sharpening your wits on helpless servants. A waiter has no friends, anyway!"

An elevator, descending, discharged into the lobby half a dozenmirthful maskers. Of these, a Scheherazade of bewitching prettiness(in a cloak of ermine!) singled out the silent, cynical littlegentleman in scarlet mask and smalls, and menaced him merrily with ajewelled forefinger. 

"What--you, Lucifer! Traitor! Where have you been all evening?"

"Madame!"--he bowed mockingly--"in spirit, always at your ear. "

She flushed and bit her lip in charming confusion; while an abbess, with face serene in the frame of her snowy coif, caught up the ball ofbadinage:

"Ah, in spirit! But in the flesh?"

"Why, poppet!" he retorted in suave surprise--"it isn't possible that_you_ missed me?"

And she, too, coloured; while a third, a girl dressed all in buckskinfrom beaded hunting-shirt to fringed leggings and dainty moccasins, bent to peer into his face. 

"Who are you?" she demanded curiously. "I don't seem to know you--"

"That, child, you have already proved. "

"I?... Proved?... How do you mean?"

"You alone have not yet blushed. "

And wheeling mischievously to the others, he covered them withwidespread hands in burlesque benediction. 

"The unction of my deep damnation abide with ye, my children, now andforevermore!" he chanted, showering sparks from crepitant finger-tips;and bounded lightly into the elevator. 

"But your mask!" protested Scheherazade in a pet. "You've noright--when we all unmasked at supper. "

Through the iron fretwork of the gate, the little gentleman shot aParthian spark or two. 

"I wear no mask!" he informed them solemnly as the car shot fromsight. 

The conceit tickled him; he had it still in mind when he alighted atthe ball-room floor. 

Pausing in the anteroom, he struck an artificial pose on his high redheels and stroked thin, satiric lips with slender fingers, reviewingthe crush with eyes that glinted light-hearted malice through thescarlet visor; seeking a certain one and finding her not among thosemany about him--their gay exotic trappings half hidden beneath wrapsof modern convention assumed against impending departure. 

A hedge of backs hid from him the ball-room, choking the wide, higharch of its entrance. 

Turning to one side, he began to pick a slow way through the press, and so presently found himself shoulder to shoulder with elderly andpompous Respectability in a furred great-coat; who, all ready for thestreet, with shining topper poised at breast-level, had delayed hisgoing for an instant's guarded confabulation with a youngish manconspicuous in this, that he, alone of all that company, was in simpleevening dress. 

Their backs were toward P. Sybarite, but by the fat pink folds abovethe back of Respectability's collar and the fat white side-whiskersadorning his plump pink chops, Beelzebub knew that he encountered forthe second time that evening Respectability of the gold-capped cane. 

Without the least shame, he paused and cocked sharp ears to catch whathe could of the conversation between these two. 

Little enough he profited by his open eavesdropping; what he heard wasscarcely illuminating when applied to the puzzle that haunted him. 

"She won't--that's flat, " Respectability's companion announced in asullen voice. 

By the tone of this last Beelzebub knew that it issued from an uglytwisted mouth. 

"But, " Respectability insisted heavily--"You're sure you've done yourbest to persuade her?"

"She won't listen to reason. "

"Well ... Everything's arranged. You have me to thank for that. "

"Oh, " sneered the younger man, "you've done a lot, you have!"

And then, moving to give way to another making toward the elevators, Brian Shaynon discovered at his elbow that small attentive body insinister scarlet and black. 

For a breath, utterance failed the old man. He glared pop-eyedindignation from a congested countenance, his fat lips quivering andhis jowls as well; and then as Beelzebub tapped him familiarly iflightly upon the chest, his face turned wholly purple, from swollentemples to pendulous chin. 

"Well met, _âme damnée_!" P. Sybarite saluted him gaily. "Are youindeed off so early upon my business?"

"Damnation!" exclaimed Brian Shaynon, all but choking. 

"It shall surely be your portion, " gravely assented the little man. "To all who in my service prosper in a worldly way--damnation, upon myhonourable Satanic word!"

"Who the devil--?"

"_Whisht!_" P. Sybarite reproved. "A trifle more respect, if youplease--lest you wake in the morning to find all my benefactionsturned to ashes in your strong-boxes!"

But here Respectability found his full voice. 

"Who are you?" he demanded so stormily that heads turned curiously hisway. "I demand to know! Remove that mask! Impertinent--!"

"Mask?" purred Beelzebub in a tone of wonder. "I wear no mask!"

"No mask!" stammered the older man, in confusion. 

"Nay, _I_ am frankly what I am--old Evil's self, " P. Sybariteexplained blandly; "but you, Brian Shaynon--now you go always masked:waking or sleeping, hypocrisy's your lifelong mask. You see thedistinction, old servant?"

In another moment he might have suffered a sound drubbing with theebony cane but for Peter Kenny's parlour-magic trick. For as BrianShaynon started forward to seize Beelzebub by the collar, a stream ofincandescent sparks shot point-blank into his face; and when he fellback in puffing dismay, Beelzebub laughed provokingly, ducked behindthe backs of a brace of highly diverted bystanders, and quickly anddeftly wormed his way through the press to the dancing-floor itself. 

As for the younger man--he of the unhandsome mouth--P. Sybarite wascontent to hold him in reserve, to be dealt with later, at hisleisure. For the present, his business pressed with the waning night. 

In high feather, bubbling with mischief, he sidled along the wall alittle way, then halted to familiarise himself with scene andatmosphere against his next move. 

But after the first minute or two, spent in silent review of thebrilliant scene, his thin lips lost something of their cynicmodelling, the eyes behind the scarlet visor something of theirmischievous twinkle--softening with shadows envious and regretful. 

The room was as one vast pool of limpid golden light, walls andceilings so luminous with the refulgence of a thousand electric bulbsthat they seemed translucent, glowing with a radiance from beyond. 

On the famous floor, twelve-score couples swung and swayed to theintoxicating rhythms of an unseen orchestra; kaleidoscopic in theiramazingly variegated costuming of colour, drifting past the lonely, diabolical little figure, an endless chain of paired anachronisms. 

Searching narrowly each fair face that flashed past in another's arms, he waited with seeming patience. But the music buzzed in his brain andhis toes tingled for it; breathing the warm, voluptuous air, heinhaled hints of a thousand agreeable and exciting scenes; watching, he perceived in perturbation the witchery of a hundred exquisitewomen. And a rancorous discontent gnawed at his famished heart. 

This was all his by right of birth--should be his now, but for theblind malice of his sorry destiny. _Kismet_ had favoured him greatly, but too late.... 

But of a sudden he forgot self-pity and vain repining, in thediscovery of the one particular woman swinging dizzily past in thearms of an Incroyable, whose giddy plumage served only to render themore striking her exquisite fairness and the fine simplicity of hercostume. 

For she was all in the black-and-white uniform of a Blessingtonshopgirl; black skirt and blouse, stockings and pumps, relieved byshowy linen at throat and wrists, with at waist the white patch of atiny lace-and-linen apron. 

Perhaps it was his start of recognition; it may have been the veryfixed intensity of his regard; whatever drew it, her gaze veered tohis silent and aloof figure, and for an instant his eyes held hers. Atonce, to his consternation, the hot blood stained her lovely face fromthroat to brow; her glance wavered, fell in confusion, then as thoughby a strong effort of will alone, steadied once more to his. Noddingwith an air of friendly diffidence, she flashed him a strange, perplexing smile; and was swept on and away. 

For a thought he checked his breath in stupefaction. Had she, then, recognised him? Was it possible that her intuition had been keenenough to pierce his disguise, vizard and all?

But the next moment he could have sworn in chagrined appreciation ofhis colossal stupidity. Of course!--his costume was that worn by PeterKenny earlier in the evening; and as between Peter and himself, of thesame stock, the two were much of a muchness in physique; both, moreover, were red-headed; their points of unlikeness were negligible, given a mask. 

So after all, her emotion had been due solely to embarrassment andregret for the pain she had caused poor Peter by refusing his offer ofmarriage!

Well!... P. Sybarite drew a long, sane breath, laughed wholesomely athimself, and thereafter had eyes only to keep the girl in sight, however far and involved her wanderings through the labyrinth of thedance. 

In good time the music ended; the fluent movement of the dancerssubsided with a curious effect of eddying--like confetti settling torest; and P. Sybarite left his station by the wall, slipping likequicksilver through the heart of the throng to the far side of theroom, where, near a great high window wide to the night, thebreathless shopgirl had dropped into a chair. 

At Beelzebub's approach the Incroyable, perhaps mindful of obligationsin another quarter, bowed and moved off, leaving the field temporarilyquite clear. 

She greeted him with a faint recurrence of her former blush. 

"Why, Peter!" she cried--and so sealed with confirmation his surmiseas to her mistake--"I was wondering what had become of you. I thoughtyou must have gone home. "

"Peter did go home, " P. Sybarite affirmed gravely, bending over herhand. 

His voice perplexed her tremendously. She opened eyes wide. 

"Peter!" she exclaimed reproachfully--"you promised it wouldn't makeany difference. We were to go on just as always--good friends. Andnow ... "

"Yes?" P. Sybarite prompted as she faltered. 

"I don't like to say it, Peter, but--your voice is so different. You've not been--doing anything foolish, have you?"

"Peter hasn't, " the little man lied cheerfully; "Peter went home tosulk like the unwhipped cub he is; and sulking, was yet decent enoughto lend me these rags. "

"You--you're not Peter Kenny?"

"No more than you are Molly Lessing. "

"Molly Lessing! What do you know--? Who can you be? Why are youmasked?"

"Simply, " he explained pleasantly, "that my incognito may remain suchto all save you. "

"But--but who _are_ you?"

"It is permitted?" he asked, with a gesture offering to take the tinyprinted card of dance engagements that dangled from her fingers by itssilken thong. 

In dumb mystification the girl surrendered it. 

Seating himself beside her, P. Sybarite ran his eye down the list. 

"The last was number--which?" he enquired with unruffled impudence. 

Half angry, half amused, wholly confused, she told him: "Fifteen. "

"Then one number only remains. "

His lips hardened as he read the initials pencilled opposite thatnumeral; they were "B. S. "

"Bayard Shaynon?" he queried. 

She assented with a nod, her brows gathering. 

Coolly, with the miniature pencil attached to the card, he changed thesmall, faint _B_ to a large black _P_, strengthened the _S_ tocorrespond, and added to that _ybarite_; then with a bow returned thecard. 

The girl received the evidence of her senses with a silent gasp. 

He bowed again: "Yours to command. "

"You--Mr. Sybarite!"

"I, Miss Blessington. "

"But--incredible!" she cried. "I can't believe you ... "

Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor, meeting her stare with hiswistful and diffident smile. 

[Illustration: Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor. ]

"You see, " he said, readjusting the mask. 

"But--what does this mean?"

"Do you remember our talk on the way home after _Kismet_--four hoursor several years ago: which is it?"

"I remember we talked ... "

"And I--clumsily enough, Heaven knows!--told you that I'd go far forone who'd been kind and tolerant to me, if she were in trouble andcould use my poor services?"

"I remember--yes. "

"You suspected--surely--it was yourself I had in mind?"

"Why, yes; but--"

"And you'll certainly allow that what happened later, at the door, when I stood in the way of the importunate Mr. 'B. S. '--if I'm notsadly in error--was enough to convince any one that you needed afriend's good offices?"

"So, " she said softly, with glimmering eyes--"so for that you followedme here, Mr. Sybarite!"

"I wish I might claim it. But it wouldn't be true. No--I didn't followyou. "

"Please, " she begged, "don't mystify me--"

"I don't mean to. But to tell the truth, my own head is still awhirlwith all the chapter of accidents that brought me here. Since youflew off with B. S. , following afoot, I've traversed a vast deal ofadventure--to wind up here. If, " he added, grinning, "this is thewind-up. I've a creepy, crawly feeling that it isn't.... "

"Miss Blessington, " he pursued seriously, "if you have patience tolisten to what I've been through since we parted in Thirty-eighthStreet--?" Encouraged by her silence he went on: "I've broken the bankat a gambling house; been held up for my winnings at the pistol'spoint--but managed to keep them. I've been in a raid and escaped onlyafter committing felonious assault on two detectives. I thenburglarised a private residence, and saved the mistress of the housefrom being murdered by her rascally husband--blundered thence tothe deadliest dive in New York--met and slanged mine ancient enemy, the despoiler of my house--took part in a drunken brawl--saved myinfatuated young idiot of a cousin, Peter Kenny, from assassination--tookhim home, borrowed his clothing, and impudently invited myself to thisparty on the mere suspicion that 'Molly Lessing' and Marian Blessingtonmight be one and the same, after all!... And all, it appears, that Imight come at last to beg a favour of you. "

"I can't think what it can be, " breathed the girl, dumfounded. 

"To forgive my unpardonable impertinence--"

"I've not been conscious of it. "

"You'll recognise it immediately. I am about to transgress yourprivacy with a question--two, in fact. Will you tell me, please, inconfidence, why you refused my cousin, Peter Kenny, when he asked youto marry him?"

Colouring, she met his eyes honestly. 

"Because--why, it was so utterly absurd! He's only a boy. Besides, Idon't care for him--that way. "

"You care for some one else--'that way'?"

"Yes, " said the girl softly, averting her face. 

"Is it--Mr. Bayard Shaynon?"

"No, " she replied after a perceptible pause. 

"But you have promised to marry him?"

"I once made him that promise--yes. "

"You mean to keep it?"

"I must. "

"Why?"

"It was my father's wish. "

"And yet--you don't like him!"

Looking steadily before her, the girl said tensely: "I loathe him. "

"Then, " cried P. Sybarite in a joyful voice, "I may tell yousomething: you needn't marry him. "

She turned startled eyes to his, incredulous. 

"_Need_ not?"

"I should have said _can_ not--"

Through the loud hum of voices that, filling the room, had furnished acover for their conversation, sounded the opening bars of music forthe final dance. 

The girl rose suddenly, eyes like stars aflame in a face of snow. 

"He will be coming for me now, " she said hurriedly. "But--if you meanwhat you say--I must know--instantly--why you say it. How can wemanage to avoid him?"

"This way, " said P. Sybarite, indicating the wide window nearby. 

Through its draped opening a shallow balcony showed, half-screened bypalms whose softly stirring fronds, touched with artificial light, shone a garish green against the sombre sky of night. 

Immediately Marian Blessington slipped through the hangings and, turning, beckoned P. Sybarite to follow. 

"There's no one here, " she announced in accents tremulous withexcitement, when he joined her. "Now--_now_ tell me what you mean!"

"One moment, " he warned her gently, turning back to the window just asit was darkened by another figure. 

The man with the twisted mouth stood there, peering blindly into thesemi-obscurity. 

"Marian... ?" he called in a voice meant to be ingratiating. 

"Well?" the girl demanded harshly. 

"I thought I saw you, " he commented blandly, advancing a pace and socoming face to face with the bristling little Mephistophelean figure, which he had endeavoured to ignore. 

"My dance, I believe, " he added a trace more brusquely, over thelittle man's head. 

"I must ask you to excuse me, " said the girl coldly. 

"You don't care to dance again to-night?"

"Thank you--no. "

"Then I will give myself the pleasure of sitting it out with you. "

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Bayard, " she returned, consistently inflexible. 

He hesitated. "Do I understand you're ready for me to take you home?"

"You're to understand that I will neither dance nor sit out the dancewith you--and that I don't wish to be disturbed. "

"Bless your heart!" P. Sybarite interjected privately. 

The voice of the younger Shaynon broke with passion. 

"This is--the limit!" he cried violently. "I've reached the end of myendurance. Who's this creature you're with?"

"Is your memory so short?" P. Sybarite asked quietly. "Have youforgotten the microbe?--the little guy who puts the point indisappointment?"

"I've forgotten nothing, you--animal! Nor that you insulted my fatherpublicly only a few minutes ago, you--"

"That is something that takes a bit of doing, too!" affirmed P. Sybarite with a nod. 

"And I want to inform you, sir, " Shaynon raged, "that you've gone toofar by much. I insist that you remove your mask and tell me yourname. "

"And if I refuse?" said the little man coolly. 

"If you refuse--or if you persist in this insolent attitude, sir!--I--I'll--"

"_What?_ In the name of brevity, make up your mind and give it a name, man!"

"I'll thrash you within an inch of your life--here and now!" Shaynonblustered. 

"One moment, " P. Sybarite pleaded with a graceful gesture. "Beforecommitting yourself to this mad enterprise, would you mind telling meexactly how you spell that word _inch_? With a capital _I_ and a final_e_--by any chance?"

XVII

IN A BALCONY

Bewilderment and consternation, working in the man, first struck himdumb, aghast, and witless, then found expression in an involuntarygasp that was more than half of wondering fear, the remainder rageslipping its leash entirely:

"_What?_"

He advanced a pace with threatening mien. 

Overshadowed though he was, P. Sybarite stood his ground with no leasthint of dismay. To the contrary, he was seen to stroke his lipsdiscreetly as if to erase a smile. 

"The word in question, " he said with exasperating suavity, "is thecommon one of four letters, to-wit, _inch_; as ordinarily spelleddenoting the unit of lineal measurement--the twelfth part of a foot;but lend it a capital _I_ and an ultimate _e_--my good fellow!--and itstands, I fear too patiently, for the standard of your blackguardism. "

Speechless, the younger Shaynon hesitated, lifting an uncertain handto his throat, as if to relieve a sense of strangulation. 

"Or what if I were to suggest--delicately--that you're within an Incheof the end of your rope?" the little man pursued, grimly playful. "Give you an Inche and--what will you take, eh?"

With an inarticulate cry, Shaynon's fist shot out as if to strike hispersecutor down; but in mid-air P. Sybarite's slim, strong fingersclosed round and inflexibly stayed his enemy's wrist, with barelyperceptible effort swinging it down and slewing the man off poise, sothat perforce he staggered back against the stone of the window's deepembrasure. 

"Behave!" P. Sybarite counselled evenly. "Remember where you are--in alady's presence. Do you want to go sprawling from the sole of my footinto the presence of more than one--or over this railing, to thesidewalk, and become food for inch-worms?"

Releasing Shaynon, he stepped back warily, anticipating nothing lessthan an instant and disgraceful brawl. 

"As for my mask, " he said--"if it still annoys you--"

He jerked it off and away. 

Escaping the balustrade, it caught a wandering air and driftedindolently down through the darkness of the street, like an errantpetal plucked from some strange and sinister bloom of scarletviolence. 

"And if my face tells you nothing, " he added hotly, "perhaps my namewill help. It's Sybarite. You may have heard it!"

As if from a blow, Shaynon's eyes winced. Breathing heavily, heaverted a face that took on the hue of parchment in the cold lightstriking up from the electric globes that march Fifth Avenue. Thenquietly adjusting his crumpled cuff, he drew himself up. 

"Marian, " he said as soon as he had his voice under control, "sinceyou wish it, I'll wait for you in the lobby, downstairs. As--as foryou, sir--"

"Yes, I know, " the little man interrupted wearily: "you'll 'deal with'me later, 'at a time and a place more fitting. '... Well, I won't mindthe delay if you'll just trot along now, like a good dog--"

Unable longer to endure the lash of his mordacious wit, Shaynon turnedand left them alone on the balcony. 

"I'm sorry, " P. Sybarite told the girl in unfeigned contrition. "Please forgive me. I've a vicious temper--the colour of my hair--andI couldn't resist the temptation to make him squirm. "

"If you only knew how I despised him, " she said, "you wouldn't thinkit necessary to excuse yourself--though I don't know yet what it's allabout. "

"Simply, I happen to have the whip-hand of the Shaynon conscience, "returned P. Sybarite; "I happened to know that Bayard is secretly thehusband of a woman notorious in New York under the name of Mrs. Jefferson Inche. "

"Is that true? Dare I believe--?"

Intimations of fears inexpressibly alleviated breathed in her cry. 

"I believe it. "

"On what grounds? Tell me!"

"The word of the lady herself, together with the evidence of hisconfusion just now. What more do you need?"

Turning aside, the girl rested a hand upon the balustrade and gazedblankly off through the night. 

"But--I can't help thinking there must be some mistake--some terriblemistake. "

"If so, it is theirs--the Shaynons', father and son. "

"But they've been bringing such pressure to bear to make me agree toan earlier wedding day--!"

"Not even that shakes my belief in Mrs. Inche's story. As a matter offact, Bayard offered her half a million if she'd divorce him quietly, without any publicity, in the West. "

"And she accepted--?"

"She has refused, believing she stands to gain more by holding on. "

"If that is true, how can it be that he has been begging me this verynight to marry him within a month?"

"He may have entertained hopes of gaining his end--his freedom--inanother way. "

"It's--it's inexpressibly horrible!" the girl cried, twisting herhands together. 

"Furthermore, " argued the little man, purposefully unresponsive, "heprobably thinks himself forced to seem insistent by the part he'splaying. His father doesn't know of this entanglement; he'd disinheritBayard if he did; naturally, Bayard wouldn't dare to seem reluctant tohasten matters, for fear of rousing the old man's suspicions. "

"It may be so, " she responded vacantly, in the confusion of adjustingher vision of life to this new and blinding light.... 

"Tell me, " he suggested presently, stammering--"if you don't mindgiving me more of your confidence--to which I don't pretend to haveany right--only my interest in--in you--the mystery with which yousurround yourself--living alone there in that wretched boarding-house--"

He broke off with a brief uneasy laugh: "I don't seem to getanywhere.... My fear lest you think me presumptuous--"

"Don't fear that for another instant--please!" she begged earnestly;and swinging to face him again, gave him an impulsive hand. "I'm sograteful to you for--for what you've saved me from--"

"Then... " Self-distrustful, he retained her fingers only transiently. "Then why not tell me--everything. If I understood, I might be able tooffer some suggestions--to save you further distress--"

"Oh, no; you can't do that, " she interrupted. "If what you've said istrue, I--I shall simply continue to live by myself. "

"You don't mean you would go back to Thirty-eighth Street?"

"No, " she said thoughtfully, "I'm--I don't mean that. "

"You're right, " he assured her. "It's no place for you. "

"That wasn't meant to be permanent, " she explained--"merely anexperiment. I went there for two reasons: to be rid for a while oftheir incessant attempts to hasten my marriage with Bayard; andbecause I suddenly realised I knew nothing about my father's estate, and found I was to know nothing for another year--that is, until, under his will, I come into my fortune. Old Mr. Shaynon would tell menothing--treated me as though I were still a child. Moreover I hadgrown deeply interested in the way our girls were treated; I wanted toknow about them--to be sure they were given a fair chance--earnedenough to live decently--and other things about their lives--you canimagine.... "

"I think I understand, " said P. Sybarite gravely. 

"I had warned them more than once I'd run away if they didn't let mealone.... You see, Mr. Shaynon insisted it was my father's wish that Ishould marry Bayard, and on that understanding I promised to marry himwhen I came into possession of the estate. But that didn't suit--orrather, it seemed to satisfy them only for a little time. Very soonthey were pestering me again to marry at once. I couldn't see theneed--and finally I kept my word and ran away--took my room inThirty-eighth Street, and before long secured work in my own store. Atfirst I was sure they'd identify me immediately; but somehow no oneseemed to suspect me, and I stayed on, keeping my eyes open andcollecting evidence of a system of mismanagement and oppression--but Ican't talk about that calmly--"

"Please don't if it distresses you, " P. Sybarite begged gently. 

"At all events, " she resumed, "it wasn't until to-night that Bayardfound out where I was living--as you saw. At first I refused to returnhome, but he declared my disappearance was creating a scandal; thatone newspaper threatened to print a story about my elopement with achauffeur, and that there was other unpleasant talk about Mr. Shaynon's having caused me to be spirited away so that he might gaincontrol of my estate--"

"Wonder what put _that_ into his head!" P. Sybarite broke in withquickening curiosity. 

"He insisted that these stories could only be refuted if I'd come homefor a few days and show myself at this dance to-night. And when Istill hesitated, he threatened--"

"What?" growled the little man. 

"That, if I didn't consent, he'd telephone the paper to go ahead andpublish that awful story about the chauffeur. "

P. Sybarite caught himself barely in time to shut his teeth upon anexpletive. 

"There!" said the girl. "Don't let's talk about it any longer. Afterwhat you've told me.... Well, it's all over now!"

P. Sybarite pondered this in manifest doubt. 

"Are you sure?" he queried with his head thoughtfully to one side. 

"Am I sure?" she repeated, puzzled. "Rather! I tell you, I've finishedwith the Shaynons for good and all. I never liked either ofthem--never understood what father saw in old Mr. Shaynon to make himtrust him the way he did. And now, after what has happened ... I shallstop at the Plaza to-night--they know me there--and telephone for mythings. If Mr. Shaynon objects, I'll see if the law won't relieve meof his guardianship. "

"If you'll take a fool's advice, you'll do that, whether or no. Anuneasy conscience is a fine young traitor to its possessor, as arule. "

"Now, what can you mean by that?"

"I don't believe there's been any whisper of suspicion that theShaynons had caused you to be spirited away. "

"Then why did Bayard say--"

"Because he was thinking about it! The unconscious self-betrayal ofthe unskilled but potential criminal. "

"Oh!" cried the girl in horror. "I don't think _that_--"

"Well, I do, " said P. Sybarite gloomily. "I know they're capable ofit. It wouldn't be the first time Brian Shaynon ruined a friend. Therewas once a family in this town by the name of Sybarite--the family ofa rich and successful man, associated with Brian Shaynon in a businessway. I'm what's left of it, thanks to _my_ father's faith in oldBrian's integrity. It's too long a story to detail; but the old foxmanaged to keep within the letter of the law when he robbed me of myinheritance, and there's no legal way to get back at him. I'm tellingyou all this only to show you how far the man's to be trusted. "

"Oh, I'm sorry--!"

"Don't be, please. What I've endured has done me no harm--and to-nighthas seen the turn of my fortunes--or else I'm hopelessly deluded. Furthermore, some day I mean to square my account with Brian Shaynonto the fraction of a penny--and within the law. "

"Oh, I do hope you may!"

P. Sybarite smiled serenely. "I shall; and you can help me, if youwill. "

"How?"

"Stick to your resolution to have no more to do with the family;retain a good lawyer to watch your interests under old Brian's charge;and look out for yourself. "

"I'll surely do all that, Mr. Sybarite; but I don't understand--"

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, it'll help a lot. Public disavowal of yourengagement to Bayard will be likely to bring Shaynon's affairs to acrisis. I firmly believe they're hard pressed for money--that itwasn't consolidation of two going-concerns for mutual advantage, butthe finding of new capital for a moribund and insolvent house thatthey've been seeking through this marriage. That's why they were insuch a hurry. Even if Bayard were free--as his father believes him tobe--why need the old man have been so unreasonable when all the delayyou ask is another twelvemonth? Believe me, he had some excellentreason for his anxiety. Finally, if the old villain isn't fomentingsome especially foul villainy, why need he sneak from here to-night tothe lowest dive in town to meet and confer with a gang leader andmurderer like Red November?"

"What are you talking about now?" demanded the bewildered girl. 

"An hour or so ago I met old Brian coming out of a dive known as DutchHouse, the worst in this old Town. What business had he there, if he'san honest man? I can't tell you because I don't know. But it wasfoul--that's certain. Else why need he have incited Red and hisfollowers to drug Peter Kenny into forgetfulness? Peter found himthere before I did. It was only after the deuce of a row that I gotthe boy away alive. "

Temporarily he suppressed mention of Peter's hurt. The girl had enoughto occupy her without being subjected to further drain upon hersympathies. 

"I'd like to know!" he wound up gloomily.... "That old scoundrel nevervisited Dutch House out of simple curiosity; and whatever his purpose, one thing's sure--it wasn't one to stand daylight. It's been puzzlingme ever since--an appointment of some sort he made with November justas I hove within earshot. '_Two-thirty_, ' he said; and Novemberrepeated the hour and promised to be on the job. 'Two-thirty!'--what_can_ it mean? It's later than that now but--mark my words!--something'sgoing to happen this afternoon, or to-morrow, or some time soon, athalf-past two o'clock!"

"Perhaps you're right, " said the girl doubtfully. "And yet you may bewrong in thinking me involved in any way. Indeed, I'm sure you must bewrong. I can't believe that he could wish me actual harm. "

"Miss Blessington, " said P. Sybarite solemnly, "when you ran off inthat taxi at midnight, I had five dollars in all the world. Thisminute, as I stand, I'm worth twenty-five thousand--more money than Iever hoped to see in this life. It means a lot to me--a start towardindependence--but I'd give every cent of it for some reliableassurance that Brian Shaynon and his son mean you no harm. "

Surprised and impressed by his unwonted seriousness, the girlinstinctively shrank back against the balustrade. 

"Mr. Sybarite--!" she murmured, wide-eyed. 

He remarked her action with a gesture almost of supplication. 

"Don't be alarmed, " he begged; and there was in his voice the leastflavour of bitterness. "I'm not going to say anything Ishouldn't--anything you wouldn't care to hear. I'm not altogether mad, Miss Blessington; only... 

"Well!" he laughed quietly--"when my run of luck set in to-night backthere at the gambling house, I told myself it was _Kismet's_doing--that this was my Day of Days. If I had thought, I shouldinstead have called it my Night of Nights--knowing it must wear outwith the dawn. "

His gesture drew her heed to the east; where, down the darkling, lamp-studded canyon of a cross-town street, stark against a skypulsing with the faintest foreboding of daybreak, the gaunt, steel-girdered framework of the new Grand Central Station stood--inits harshly angular immensity as majestic as the blackened skeleton ofa burnt-out world glimpsed against the phosphorescent pallor of thelast chill dawn.... 

In the great ball-room behind them, the last strains of dance musicwere dying out. 

"Now, " said the little man with a brisker accent, "by your leave, weget back to what we were discussing; your welfare--"

"Mr. Sybarite, " the girl interrupted impetuously--"whatever happens, Iwant you to know that I at least understand you; and that to me you'llalways be my standard of a gentleman brave and true--and kind. "

As impulsively as she had spoken, she gave him her hands. 

Holding them fugitively in both his own, he gazed intently into theshadowed loveliness of her face. 

Then with a slight shake of his head--whether of renunciation or ofdisappointment, she couldn't tell--he bent so low that for a thoughtshe fancied he meant to touch his lips to her fingers. 

But he gave them back to her as they had come to him. 

"It is you who are kind, Miss Blessington, " he said steadily--"verykind indeed to me. I presume, and you permit; I violate your privacy, and you are not angry; I am what I am--and you are kind. That is goingto be my most gracious memory.... 

"And now, " he broke off sharply, "all the pretty people are goinghome, and you must, too. May I venture one step farther? Don't permitBayard Shaynon--"

"I don't mean to, " she told him. "Knowing what I know--it'simpossible. "

"You will go to the Plaza?"

"Yes, " she replied: "I've made up my mind to that. "

"You have a cab waiting, of course. May I call it for you?"

"My own car, " she said; "the call check is with my wraps. But, " shesmiled, "I shall be glad to give it to you, to hand to the porter, ifyou'll be so good. "

He had longed to be asked to accompany her; and at the same timeprayed to be spared that trial. Already he had ventured too perilouslyclose to the brink of open avowal of his heart's desire. And thatway--well he knew it!--humiliation lay, and opaque despair. Better tolive on in the melancholy company of a hopeless heart than in thewretchedness of one rejected and despised. And who--and what--was he, that she should look upon him with more than the transient favour ofpity or of gratitude for a service rendered?

But, since she, wise in her day and generation, did not ask him, suddenly he was glad. The tension of his emotion eased. He even foundgrace to grin amiably. 

"To do Bayard out of that honour!" he said cheerfully. "You couldn'tinvent a service to gratify me more hugely. "

She smiled in sympathy. 

"But he will be expecting to see you home?"

"No matter if he does, he shan't. Besides, he lives in bachelorrooms--within walking distance, I believe. "

Holding aside the window draperies, he followed her through to theball-room. 

Already the vast and shining hall was almost empty; only at thefarther wall a handful of guests clustered round the doorway, waitingto take their turn in the crowded cloakrooms. Off to one side, in adeep apsidal recess, the members of the orchestra were busily packingup their instruments. And as the last of the guests--save MarianBlessington and P. Sybarite--edged out into the ante-rooms, adetachment of servants invaded the dancing-floor and bustled aboutsetting the room to rights. 

A moment more, and the two were close upon the vanguard of departingguests. 

"You'll have a time finding your hat and coat, " smiled the girl. 

"I? Not I. With marvellous sagacity, I left 'em with a waiterdownstairs. But you?"

"I'm afraid I must keep you waiting. No matter if it is four in themorning--and later--women do take a time to wrap up. You won't mind?"

"Not in the least--it prolongs my Day of Days!" he laughed. 

"I shall look for you in the lobby, " she replied, smiling; and slippedaway through the throng. 

Picking his way to the elevators, constantly squirming moreinextricably into the heart of the press, elbowed and shouldered andpolitely walked upon, not only fore and aft, but to port and starboardas well, by dame, dowager, and débutante, husband, lover, and esquire, patricians, celebrities and the commonalty (a trace, as the chemistssay), P. Sybarite at length found himself only a layer or two removedfrom the elevator gates. 

And one of these presently opening, he stumbled in with the crush, tohold his breath in vain effort to make himself smaller, gaze incross-eyed embarrassment at the abundant and nobly undisguised back ofthe lady of distinction in front of him, and stand on tiptoes to sparethose of the man behind him; while the cage descended with maddeningdeliberation. 

If he had but guessed the identity of the man in the rear, the chancesare he would have (thoughtlessly of course) brought down his heelsupon the other's toes with all his weight on top of them. But in hisignorance P. Sybarite was diligent to keep the peace. 

Liberated on the lower floor, he found his lackey, resumed hat andcoat, and mounted guard in the lobby opposite the elevators. 

Miss Blessington procrastinating consistently with her warning, heschooled himself to patience, mildly diverted by inspection of thosewho passed him, going out. 

At the side-street entrance, the crush of ante-room and elevators wasduplicated, people jamming the doorway and overflowing to the sidewalkwhile awaiting their motor-cars and carriages. 

But through the Fifth Avenue entrance only the thin stream of thoseintending to walk was trickling away. 

After a time P. Sybarite discovered Mr. Bayard Shaynon not far off, like himself waiting and with a vigilant eye reviewing the departing, the while he talked in close confidence with one who, a stranger to P. Sybarite, was briefly catalogued in his gallery of impressions as"hard-faced, cold-eyed, middle-aged, fine-trained but awkward--verylikely, _nouveau riche_;" and with this summary, dismissed from thelittle man's thoughts. 

When idly he glanced that way a second time, the younger Shaynon wasalone, and had moved nearer; his countenance impassive, he lookedthrough and beyond P. Sybarite a thought too ostentatiously. But wheneventually Marian appeared, he was instant to her side, forestallingeven the alert flanking movement of P. Sybarite. 

"You're quite ready, Marian?" Shaynon asked; and familiarly slipped aguiding hand beneath the arm of the girl--with admirable effronteryignoring his earlier dismissal. 

On the instant, halting, the girl turned to him a full, cold stare. 

"I prefer you do not touch me, " she said clearly, yet in low tones. 

"Oh, come!" he laughed uneasily. "Don't be foolish--"

"Did you hear me, Bayard?"

"You're making a scene--" the man flashed, colouring darkly. 

"And, " P. Sybarite interjected quietly, "I'll make it worse if youdon't do as Miss Blessington bids you. "

With a shrug, Shaynon removed his hand; but with no otheracknowledgment of the little man's existence, pursued indulgently:"You have your carriage-call check ready, Marian? If you'll let mehave it--"

"Let's understand one another, once and for all time, Bayard, " thegirl interrupted. "I don't wish you to take me home. I prefer to goalone. Is that clear? I don't wish to feel indebted to you for even soslight a service as this, " she added, indicating the slip ofpasteboard in her fingers. "But if Mr. Sybarite will be so kind--"

The little man accepted the card with no discernible sign ofjubilation over Shaynon's discomfiture. 

"Thank you, " he said mildly; but waited close by her side. 

For a moment Shaynon's face reminded him of one of the masks ofcrimson lacquer and black that grinned from the walls of Mrs. Inche's"den. " But his accents, when he spoke, were even, if menacing in theirtonelessness. 

"Then, Marian, I'm to understand it's--goodnight?"

"I think, " said the girl with a level look of disdain, "it might befar better if you were to understand that it's good-bye. "

"You, " he said with slight difficulty--"you mean that, Marian?"

"Finally!" she asseverated. 

He shrugged again; and his eyes, wavering, of a sudden met P. Sybarite's and stabbed them with a glance of ruthless and unbridledhatred, so envenomed that the little man was transiently conscious ofa misgiving. 

"Here, " he told himself in doubt, "is one who, given his way, wouldhave me murdered within twenty-four hours!"

And he thought of Red November, and wondered what had been the fate ofthat personage at the hands of the valiant young patrolman. Almostundoubtedly the gunman had escaped arrest.... 

Shaynon had turned and was striding away toward the Fifth Avenueentrance, when Marian roused P. Sybarite with a word. 

"Finis, " she said, enchanting him with the frank intimacy of hersmile. 

He made, with a serious visage, the gesture of crossed fingers thatexorcises an evil spirit. 

"_Absit omen!_" he muttered, with a dour glance over shoulder at theretreating figure of his mortal enemy. 

"Why, " she laughed incredulously, "you're not afraid?"

Forcing a wry grin, he mocked a shudder. 

"Some irreverent body walked over the grave of me. "

"You're superstitious!"

"I'm Irish, " P. Sybarite explained sufficiently. 

XVIII

THE BROOCH

They came to the carriage entrance, where the crush of waiting peoplehad somewhat thinned--not greatly. 

Leaving Marian in the angle of the doorway, P. Sybarite pressed out tothe booth of the carriage-call apparatus, gave the operator thenumbered and perforated cardboard together with a coin, saw the manplace it on the machine and shoot home a lever that hissed and spatblue fire; then turned back. 

"What was the number?" she asked as he approached. "Did you notice? Idid--but then thought of something else; and now I've forgotten. "

"Two hundred and thirty, " replied P. Sybarite absently. 

Between the two there fell a little pause of constrained silence endedby Marian. 

"I want to see you again, very soon, Mr. Sybarite. "

The eyes of the little man were as grateful as a dog's. 

"If I may call--?" he ventured diffidently. 

"Could you come to-morrow to tea?"

"At the Plaza?"

"At the Plaza!" she affirmed with a bright nod. 

"Thank you. "

Above the hum of chattering voices rose the bellow of the carriageporter:

"Two hundred and thirty! _Two_ hundred and _thirty_!"

"My car!" said the girl with a start. 

P. Sybarite moved in front of her, signalling with a lifted hand. 

"Two hundred and thirty, " he repeated. 

A handsome town-car stood at the curb beneath the permanent awning ofiron and glass. Behind it a long rank waited with impatient, stuttering motors and dull-burning lamps that somehow forced homedrowsy thoughts of bed. 

Hurrying across the sidewalk, Marian permitted P. Sybarite to help herinto the vehicle. 

Transported by this proof of her graciousness, he gave the chauffeurthe address:

"Hotel Plaza. "

With the impudent imperturbability of his breed, the man nodded andgrunted without looking round. 

From the body of the vehicle Marian extended a white-gloved hand. 

"Good-night, Mr. Sybarite. To-morrow--at five. "

Touching her fingers, P. Sybarite raised his hat; but before he couldutter the response ready upon his tongue, he was seized by the arm andswung rudely away from the door. At the same time a voice (theproperty of the owner of that unceremonious hand) addressed the porterroughly:

"Shut that door and send the car along! I'll take charge of thisgentleman!"

In this speech an accent of irony inhered to exasperate P. Sybarite. Half a hundred people were looking on--listening! Angrily he wrenchedhis arm free. 

"What the devil--!" he cried into the face of the aggressor; and inthe act of speaking, recognised the man as him with whom BayardShaynon had been conversing in the lobby: that putativeparvenu--hard-faced, cold-eyed, middle-aged, fine-trained, awkward inevening dress.... 

The hand whose grasp he had broken shifted to his shoulder, closingfingers like steel hooks upon it. 

"If you need a row, " the man advised him quietly, "try that again. Ifyou've got good sense--come along quiet'. "

"Where? What for? What right have you--?" P. Sybarite demanded in oneraging breath. 

"I'm the house detective here, " the other answered, holding his eyeswith an inexorable glare. And the muscles of his heavy jaw tightenedeven as he tightened his grasp upon the little man's shoulder. "And ifit's all the same to you, we're going to have a quiet little talk inthe office, " he added with a jerk of his head. 

A sidelong glance discovered the fact that Marian's car haddisappeared. Doubtless she had gone in ignorance of this outrage, perhaps thinking him accosted by a chance acquaintance. At all events, she was gone, and there was now nothing to be gained from an attemptto bluster the detective down, but deeper shame and the scorn of allbeholders. 

"What do you want?" the little man asked in a more pacific tone. 

"We can talk better inside, unless"--the detective grinnedsardonically--"you want to get out hand-bills about this matter. "

"Let me go, then, " said P. Sybarite. "I'll follow you. "

"You've got a better guess than that: you'll go ahead of me, " retortedthe other. "And while you're doing it, remember that there's a cop atthe Fifth Avenue door, and I've got a handy little emergency ration inmy pocket--with my hand on the butt of it. "

"Very well, " said P. Sybarite, boiling with rage beneath thin ice ofsubmission. 

His shoulder free, he moved forward with a high chin and a challengein his eye for any that dared question his burning face--marched upthe steps through ranks that receded as if to escape pollution, and sore-entered the lobby. 

"Straight ahead, " admonished his captor, falling in at his side. "First door to the right of the elevators. "

Shoulder to shoulder, the target for two-score grinning or surprisedstares, they strode across the lobby and through the designated door. 

It was immediately closed; and the key, turned in the lock, wasremoved and pocketed by the detective. 

In this room--a small interior apartment, plainly furnished as aprivate office--two people were waiting: a stout, smooth little manwith a moustache of foreign extraction, who on better acquaintanceproved to be the manager of the establishment; the other BayardShaynon, stationed with commendable caution on the far side of theroom, the bulk of a broad, flat-topped mahogany desk fencing him offfrom the wrathful little captive. 

"Well?" this last demanded of the detective the moment they wereprivate. 

"Take it calm', son, take it calm', " counselled the man, his tone notaltogether lacking in good-nature. "There seems to be some question asto your right to attend that party upstairs; we got to investigateyou, for the sake of the rep. Of the house. Get me?"

P. Sybarite drew a long breath. If this were all that Shaynon couldhave trumped up to discomfit him--! He looked that one over with thecurling lip of contempt. 

"I believe it's no crime to enter where you've not been invited, provided you don't force door or window to do it, " he observed. 

"You admit--eh?" the manager broke in excitedly--"you have no card ofinvitation, what?"

"I freely admit I have no card of invitation what or whatever. "

"Then perhaps you'll explain whatcha doing here, " suggested thedetective, not without affability. 

"Willingly: I came to find a friend--a lady whose name I don't care tobring into this discussion--unless Mr. Shaynon has forestalled me. "

"Mr. Shaynon has mentioned a lady's name, " said the manager with asignificance lost upon P. Sybarite. 

"That, " he commented acidly, "is much what might have been expectedof"--here he lifted his shoulders with admirable insolence--"Mr. Shaynon. "

"You saw this lady, then?" the detective put in sharply. 

"Why--yes, " P. Sybarite admitted. 

"He not only saw her, " Shaynon interpolated with a malicious sneer, "but I saw him see her--and saw him get away with it. "

"Get away with--what?" P. Sybarite asked blankly. 

"Mr. Shaynon, " drawled the detective, "says he saw you lift a di'mondbrooch off'n Mrs. Addison Strone, while you was in the elevator. "

And while P. Sybarite gaped, thunderstruck and breathless with therage excited by this groundless accusation, the detective looked toShaynon for confirmation. 

"I stood behind him in the elevator, coming down, ten minutes or soago, " the latter stated heavily. "Mrs. Addison Strone was immediatelyin front of him. The cage was badly crowded--no one could move. Butpractically every one else was with friends, you understand--laughing, talking, paying no attention to this--ah--creature. As I got in, Inoticed that Mrs. Strone's brooch, a gold bar set with several largediamonds, was apparently loose--pin had parted from the catch, youknow--and meant to warn her she was in danger of losing it; but Icouldn't, without shouting over this fellow's head, so waited until wegot out; and then, when I managed to get to her, the brooch was gone. Later, I remembered this--fellow--and looking round the lobby, saw himin a corner, apparently concealing something about his person. So Ispoke to you about it. "

P. Sybarite's face settled into grim lines. "Shaynon, " he said slowly, without visible temper, "this won't get you anything but trouble. Remember that, when I come to pay you out--unless you'll have thegrace to retract here and now. "

As if he had not heard, Shaynon deliberately produced a gold case, supplied himself with a cigarette, and lighted it. 

"Meanin', I take it, " the detective interpolated, "you plead notguilty?"

P. Sybarite nodded curtly. "It's a lie, out of whole cloth, " hedeclared. "You've only to search me. I'm not strong forthat--mind--and I'm going to make the lot of you smart for thisindignity; but I'm perfectly willing to prove my innocence now, byletting you search me, so long as it affords me an earlier opportunityto catch Mister Shaynon when he hasn't got you to protect him. "

"That's big talk, " commended the detective, apparently a littleprepossessed; "and it's all to the good if you can back it up. " Herose. "You don't mind my going through your pockets--sure?"

"Go ahead, " P. Sybarite told him shortly. 

"To save time, " Shaynon suggested dispassionately, "you might explorehis coat-tail pockets first. It was there that I saw him put away thebrooch. "

Nervously in his indignation, P. Sybarite caught his coat-tails frombeneath his Inverness, dragged them round in front of him, andfumbling, found a pocket. 

Groping therein, his fingers brushed something strange to him--asmall, hard, and irregular body which, escaping his clutches, fellwith a soft thud to the carpet at his feet. 

Transfixed, he stared down, and gulped with horror, shaken by asensation little short of nausea, as he recognised in the object--abar of yellow metal studded with winking brilliants of considerablesize--the brooch described by Shaynon. 

With a noncommittal grunt, the detective stooped and retrieved thisdamning bit of evidence, while the manager moved quickly to his side, to inspect the find. And P. Sybarite looked up with blank eyes in apallid, wizened face in time to see Shaynon bare his teeth--his lipscurling back in a manner peculiarly wolfish and irritating--and snarla mirthless laugh. 

It was something inopportune; the man could have done no better thankeep his peace; left to himself P. Sybarite would in all probabilityhave floundered and blustered and committed himself inextricably in amultitude of hasty and ill-considered protestations. 

But that laugh was as good as a douche of cold water in his face. Hecame abruptly to his senses; saw clearly how this thing had come topass: the temptation of the loose brooch to Shaynon's fingers itchingfor revenge, while they stood so near together in the elevator, theopportunity grasped with the avidity of low cunning, the broochtransferred, under cover of the crush, to the coat-tail pocket. 

Mute in this limpid comprehension of the circumstances, he soberedthoroughly from sickening consternation; remained in his heart a foulsediment of deadly hatred for Shaynon; to whom he nodded with asignificance that wiped the grimace from the man's face as with asponge. Something clearly akin to fear informed Shaynon's eyes. He satforward with an uneasy glance at the door. 

And then P. Sybarite smiled sunnily in the face of the detective. 

"Caught with the goods on, eh?" he chirped. 

"Well, " growled the man, dashed. "Now, what do _you_ think?"

"I'm every bit as much surprised as you are, " P. Sybarite confessed. "Come now--be fair to me--own up: you didn't expect to see that--didyou?"

The detective hesitated. "Well, " he grudged, "you did have me goin'for a minute--you were so damn' cock-sure--and it certainly is prettyslick work for an amateur. "

"You think I'm an amateur--eh?"

"I guess I know every map in the Rogues' Gallery as well's the palm ofmy hand!"

"And mine is not among them?" P. Sybarite insisted triumphantly. 

The detective grunted disdain of this inconclusive argument: "Youall've got to begin. It'll be there to-morrow, all right. "

"It looks bad, eh--not?" the manager questioned, his predacious eyesfixed greedily upon the trinket. 

"You think so?" P. Sybarite purposefully misinterpreted. "Let me see. "

Before the detective could withdraw, P. Sybarite caught the broochfrom his fingers. 

"Bad?" he mused aloud, examining it closely. "Phony? Perhaps it is. Looks like _Article de Paris_ to me. See what you think. "

He returned the trinket indifferently. 

"Nonsense!" Shaynon interposed incisively. "Mrs. Strone's not thatkind. "

"Shut up!" snapped P. Sybarite. "What do you know about it? You'velied yourself out of court already. "

A transitory expression of bewilderment clouded Shaynon's eyes. 

"I'm no judge, " the detective announced doubtfully. 

"It makes no difference, " Shaynon insisted. "Theft's theft!"

"It makes a deal of difference whether it's grand or petit larceny, "P. Sybarite flashed--"a difference almost as wide and deep as thatwhich yawns between attempted and successful wife-murder, Mr. Shaynon!"

His jaw dropped and a look of stupefying terror stamped itself uponShaynon's face. 

It was the turn of P. Sybarite to laugh. 

"Well?" he demanded cuttingly. "Are you ready to come to thestation-house and make a charge against me? I'll go peaceful as a lambwith the kind cop, if by so doing I can take you with me. But if I do, believe me, you'll never get out without a bondsman. "

Shaynon recollected himself with visible effort. 

"The man 's crazy, " he muttered sickishly, rising. "I don't know whathe 's talking about. Arrest him--take him to the station-house--whydon't you?"

"Who'll make the charge?" asked the detective, eyeing Shaynon withoutfavour. 

"Not Bayard Shaynon!" P. Sybarite asseverated. 

"It's not my brooch, " Shaynon asserted defensively. 

"You saw him take it, " the detective persisted. 

"No--I didn't; I suspected him. It's you who found the brooch on him, and it's your duty to make the charge. "

"You're one grand little lightning-change-of-heart-artist--gotta slipit to you for that, " the detective observed truculently. "Now, lis'n:I don't make no charge--"

"Any employee of the establishment will do as well, for _my_ purpose, "P. Sybarite cut in. "Come, Mr. Manager! How about you? Mr. Shaynondeclines; your detective has no stomach for the job. Suppose you takeon the dirty work--kind permission of Bayard Shaynon, Esquire. I don'tcare, so long as I get my grounds for suit against the Bizarre. "

The manager spread out expostulatory palms. "Me, I have nossingwhatever to do with the matter, " he protested. "To me it would seemMrs. Strone should make the charge. "

"Well?" mumbled the detective of Shaynon. "How aboutcha?"

"Wait, " mumbled Shaynon, moving toward the door. "I'll fetch Mrs. Strone. "

"Don't go without saying good-bye, " P. Sybarite admonished himseverely. "It isn't pretty manners. "

The door slammed tempestuously, and the little man chuckled with anaffectation of ease to which he was entirely a stranger: ceaselesslyhis mind was engaged with the problem of this trumped-up charge ofShaynon's. 

Was simple jealousy and resentment, a desire to "get even, " the wholeexplanation?

Or was there something of an uglier complexion at the bottom of theaffair?

His head buzzed with doubts and suspicions, and with misgivings onMarian's behalf but indifferently mitigated by the reflection that, atworst, the girl had escaped unhindered and alone in her private car. By now she ought to be safe at the Plaza.... 

"He won't be back, " P. Sybarite observed generally to detective andmanager; and sat him down serenely. 

"You feel pretty sure about that?" the detective asked. 

"Wait and see. "

Bending forward, the little man examined the gilt clock on themanager's desk. "Twenty minutes past four, " he announced: "I give youten minutes to find some one to make a charge against me--Shaynon, Mrs. What's-her-name, or either of yourselves, if you like the job. Ifyou fail to produce a complainant by half-past four precisely, out ofhere I go--and I'm sorry for the man who tries to stop me. "

The detective took a chair, crossed his legs, and produced a cigarwhich he began to trim with tender care. The manager, anxiously pacingthe floor, after another moment or so paused at the door, fidgeted, jerked it open, and with a muffled "Pardon!" disappeared--presumablyin search of Shaynon. 

Striking a match, the detective puffed his cigar aglow. Over its tiphis small eyes twinkled at P. Sybarite. 

"Maybe you're a gentleman crook, and maybe not, " he returned with fineimpartiality. "But you're all there, son, with the tongue action. Yougot me still goin' round in circles. Damn 'f I know yet what tothink. "

"Well, if that's your trouble, " P. Sybarite told him coolly, "this isyour cue to squat on your haunches, scratch your left ear with yourhind leg, and gaze up into my face with an intelligent expression inyour great brown eyes. "

"I'll do better 'n that, " chuckled the man. "Have a cigar. "

"Thank you, " said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering. "All I need now is a match: I acknowledge the habit. "

The match supplied, he smoked in silence. 

Four minutes passed, by the clock: no sign of the manager, Shaynon, orMrs. Strone. 

"Story?" the detective suggested at length. 

"Plant, " retorted P. Sybarite as tersely. 

"You mean he salted you?"

"In the elevator, of course. "

"It come to me, that was the way of it when he sprung that bunk stuffabout you coarsely loading said loot into your coat-tail, " admittedthe detective. "That didn't sound sensible, even if you did have askirt to fuss into a cab. The ordinary vest-pocket of commercewould've kept it just as close, besides being more natural--easy toget at. Then the guy was too careful to tip me off not to pinch youuntil the lady had went--didn't want her name dragged into it.... Afellow in my job's gotta have a lot of imagination, " he concludedcomplacently. "That's why I'm letting you get away with it in thisunprofessional manner. "

"More human than in line with the best literary precedent, eh?"

"That's me. I seen he was sore when the dame turned him down, too, andstarted right off wondering if maybe it wasn't a jealousy plant. Iseen this sorta thing happen before. Not that I blame him for feelingcut up: that was one swell piece of goods you bundled into numbatwo-thirty. "

P. Sybarite's cigar dropped unheeded from his lips. 

"_What!_" he cried. 

The detective started. 

"Wasn't that the numba of the lady's cab--two-thirty?"

"Good God!" ejaculated P. Sybarite, jumping up. 

"What's hit you?"

"I'm going!" the little man announced fiercely. 

"Your time allowance ain't expired by several minutes--"

"To hell with my time allowance! Try to keep me, if you like!"

P. Sybarite strode excitedly to the door and jerked it open. Thedetective followed him, puffing philosophically. 

There was no one in sight in the hall. 

"Looks like you got a fine show for a clean getaway, " he observedcheerfully between his teeth. "Your friend's beaten it, the boss hasducked the responsibility, and you got _me_ scared to death. Besides--damn 'f I'm going to be the goat that saddles this hash-hutwith a suit for damages. "

His concluding words were addressed to the horizontal folds of theinverness that streamed from the shoulders of P. Sybarite as he boltedunhindered through the Fifth Avenue doorway. 

XIX

NEMESIS

"Dolt!... Blockhead!... Imbecile!... Idiot!... Numskull!... Ass!... Simpleton!... Loon!... "

The chill air of early morning wiped the blistering epithets from hislips as he fled like a madman down Fifth Avenue, at every stridewringing from the depths of an embittered bosom new and more virulentterms of vituperation with which to characterize his infatuatedstupidity--and finding one and all far too mild. In simple truth, theKing's English lacked invective poisonous enough to do justice to hisself-contempt. 

Deliberately had he permitted himself to be duped, circumvented, over-reached. He had held in his hand a tangible clue to that mysterywhich had so perplexed him--and had allowed it to be filched awaybefore he could recognise it and shape his course accordingly. 

Why had he never for an instant dreamed that the term "_two-thirty_"could indicate anything but the hour of some otherwise undesignatedappointment? Of course it had signified the number of Marian'scarriage-check, "230": _two hundred and thirty_, rolling off themodern tongue, stripped to essentials--thanks to the telephone'sabbreviated influence--as, simply, "_two-thirty_"!

And he had held that check in his hand, had memorised its number andrepeated it to Marian, had heard it bawled by the carriage porter, hadshouted it himself in reply: never for an instant thinking to connectit with the elder Shaynon's parting admonition to the gang leader!

If he had ere this entertained any doubts whatever of the ugly groundsfor his fears they were now resolved by recognition of Bayard's clumsyruse to keep him both out of the cab and out of the way, whileNovember and his lieutenants executed their infamous commission.... 

And all that was now ten--fifteen--twenty minutes old! Marian's carwas gone; and if it had not reached the Plaza, the girl was lost, irrevocably lost to the frantic little man with the twinkling redheels and scarlet breeches, sprinting so wildly down Fifth Avenue inthe dank, weird dusk that ran before the dawn of that April morning. 

Fortunately he hadn't far to run; else he would certainly have beenwaylaid or overhauled by some policeman of enquiring turn of mind, anxious (in the way of duty) to learn his reason for suchextraordinary haste. 

As it was, P. Sybarite managed to make his goal in record time withoutattracting the attention of more than half a dozen wayfarers; all ofwhom gave him way and went their own with that complete indifferenceso distinctly Manhattanesque.... 

He had emerged from the restaurant building to find the street bare ofany sort of hirable conveyance and himself in a fret too exacting toconsider walking to the Plaza or taking a street-car thither. Nothingless than a taxicab--and that, one with a speed-mad chauffeur--wouldsatisfy his impatient humour. 

And indeed, if there were a grain of truth in his suspicions, formlessthough in a measure they remained, he had not an instant to lose. 

But on the way to the Bizarre from Peter Kenny's rooms, some freak ofa mind superficially preoccupied had caused him to remark, on thesouth side of Forty-third Street, immediately east of Sixth Avenue, along rank of buildings which an utilitarian age had humbled from theironce proud estate of private stables to the lowlier degree of quartersfor motor vehicles both public and private. 

Of these one building boasted the blazing electric announcement: "_ALLNIGHT GARAGE_. "

Into this last P. Sybarite pelted at the top of his speed and pulledup puffing, to stare nervously round a place gloomy, cavernous, andpungent with fragrance of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Here and therelonely electric bulbs made visible somnolent ranks of motor-cars. Outof the shadows behind him, presently, came a voice drawling:

"You certainly do take on like you'd lost a power of trouble. "

P. Sybarite whirled round as if stung. The speaker occupied a chairtilted back against the wall, his feet on the rungs, a cigarettesmouldering between his lips in open contempt of the regulations ofthe Fire Department and all other admonitions of ordinarycommon-sense. 

"What can I do for you?" he resumed, nothing about him stirring saveeyes that twinkled as they travelled from head to foot of the odd andstriking figure P. Sybarite presented as _Beelzebub, Knight Errant_. 

"Taxi!" the little man panted vociferously. 

The other yawned and stretched. "It can't be done, " he admittedfairly. "They ain't no such animal on the premises. "

With a gesture P. Sybarite singled out the nearest car. 

"What's that?" he demanded angrily. 

Shading his eyes, the man examined it with growing wonder whichpresently found expression: "As I live, it's an autymobeel!"

"Damn your sense of humour!" stormed P. Sybarite. "What's the matterwith that car?"

"As man to man--nothing. "

"Why can't I have it?"

"Ten dollars an hour--"

"I'll take it. "

"But you _asked_ for a taxi, " grumbled the man, rising to press abutton. Whereupon a bell shrilled somewhere in the dark backwards ofthe establishment. "Deposit... ?" he suggested, turning back. 

P. Sybarite disbursed a golden double-eagle; and to the operator who, roused by the bell, presently drifted out of the shadows, gaping andrubbing his eyes, he promised a liberal tip for haste. 

In two minutes he was rolling out of the garage, ensconced in the bodyof a luxurious and high-powered touring machine which he stronglysuspected to be somebody's private car lawlessly farmed out while itsowner slept. 

The twilight was now stronger, if still dull and as cold as the air itcoloured, rendering P. Sybarite grateful for Peter Kenny's invernessas the car surged spiritedly up the deserted avenue, its disdain forspeed regulations ignored by the string of yawning peg-postcops--almost the only human beings in sight. 

Town was indeed deep sunk in lethargy at that small hour; thetraditional milk-wagon itself seemed to have been caught napping. Withone consent residence and shop and sky-scraping hotel blinkedapathetically at the flying car; then once more turned and slept. Eventhe Bizarre had forgotten P. Sybarite--showed at least no sign ofrecognition as he scurried past. 

A curious sense of illusion troubled the little man. The glamour ofthe night was gone and with it all that had lent semblance ofplausibility to his incredible career; daylight forced all back intoconfused and distorted perspective, like the pageant of some fantasticand disordered dream uncertainly recalled long hours after waking. 

As for himself, in his absurd attire and bound upon his ambiguouserrand, he was all out of the picture--horribly suggestive of anaddled sparrow who had stayed up all night on purpose to cheat somelegitimately early bird out of a chimerical first worm.... 

Self-conscious and ill at ease, he presented himself to the amusedinspection of the night force in the office of the Plaza, made hishalting enquiry, and received the discounted assurance that MissBlessington, though a known and valued patron of the house, was notthen its guest. 

Convinced, as he had been from the moment that the words "two-thirty, "falling from the lips of the Bizarre's house detective, had made himalive to his terrible oversight, that this would be the outcome at thePlaza, he turned away, sobered, outwitted, and miserably at a loss toguess what next to do. 

Gloomily he paused with a hand on the open door of his car, thoughtsprofoundly disturbed and unsettled, for so long that the operator grewrestless. 

"Where next, sir?" he asked. 

"Wait, " said P. Sybarite in a manner of abstraction that did him noinjustice; and entering the car, mechanically shut the door and satdown, permitting his gaze to range absently among the dusky distancesof Central Park; where through the netted, leafless branches, thelamps that march the winding pathways glimmered like a hundred tinymoons of gold lost in some vast purple well.... 

Should he appeal to the police? His solicitude for the girl forbadehim such recourse save as a last resort. Publicity must be avoideduntil the time when, all else having failed, it alone held out somelittle promise of assistance. 

But--adrift and blind upon uncharted seas of uncertainty!--what to do?

Suddenly it became plain to him that if in truth it was with her as hefeared, at least two persons knew what had become of the girl--twopersons aside from himself and her hired kidnappers: Brian Shaynon andBayard, his son. 

From them alone authoritative information might be extracted, by ruseor wile or downright intimidation, eked out with effrontery, a stoutheart, and perhaps a little luck. 

A baleful light informing his eyes, an ominous expression settlingabout his mouth, he gave the operator the address of Shaynon'stown-house; and as the car slipped away from the hotel was sensible ofkeen regret that he had left at Peter Kenny's, what time he changedhis clothing, the pistol given him by Mrs. Jefferson Inche, togetherwith the greater part of his fortuitous fortune--neither firearms norlarge amounts of money seeming polite additions to one's costume for adance.... 

In five minutes the car drew up in front of one of those fewold-fashioned, brownstone, English-basement residences which to-daysurvive on Fifth Avenue below Fifty-ninth Street, elbowed, shouldered, and frowned down upon by beetling hives of trade. 

At all of its wide, old-style windows, ruffled shades ofstraw-coloured silk were drawn. One sign alone held out any promisethat all within were not deep in slumber: the outer front doors werenot closed. Upon the frosted glass panels of the inner doors a dimlight cast a sickly yellow stain. 

Laying hold of an obsolete bell-pull, P. Sybarite yanked it with aspirit in tune with his temper. Immediately, and considerably to hissurprise, the doors were thrown open and on the threshold a butlershowed him a face of age, grey with the strain of a sleepless night, and drawn and set with bleary eyes. 

"Mr. Shaynon?" the little man demanded sharply. 

"W'ich Mr. Shaynon, sir?" enquired the butler, too weary to betraysurprise--did he feel any--at this ill-timed call. 

"Either--I don't care which. "

"Mr. Bayard Shaynon 'as just left--not five minutes ago, sir. "

"Left for where?"

"His apartments, I presume, sir. "

"Then I'll see Mr. Brian Shaynon. "

The butler's body filled the doorway. Nor did he offer to budge. 

"I'm afraid, sir, Mr. Shaynon is 'ardly likely to see any one at thishour. "

"He'll see me, " replied P. Sybarite grimly. "He hasn't gone to bed, Igather?"

"Not yet, sir; but 'e's goin' immediate'. "

"Very well. You may as well let me in. "

Suspicious but impressed, the servant shuffled aside, and P. Sybaritebrushed past him into the hallway. 

"Where is he?"

"If you'll give me your nime, sir, I'll tell him you're 'ere. "

P. Sybarite hesitated. He was in anything but the mood for joking, yeta certain dour humour in the jest caught his fancy and persuaded himagainst his better judgment. 

"Nemesis, " he said briefly. 

"Mr. --name--what? Beg pardon, sir!"

"Nem-e-sis, " P. Sybarite articulated distinctly. "And don't Mister it. He'll understand. "

"Thenk you, " muttered the servant blankly; and turned. 

"If he doesn't--tell him it's the gentleman who was not masked at theBizarre to-night. "

"Very good, sir. "

The man moved off toward the foot of a broad, shallow staircase at theback of the hall. 

On impulse, P. Sybarite strode after him. 

"On second thoughts, you needn't announce me. I'll go up with you. "

"I'm afraid I can't permit that, sir, " observed the butler, horrified. 

"Afraid you'll have to. "

And P. Sybarite would have pushed past, but the man with a quick andfrightened movement of agility uncommon in one of his age and bulk puthimself in the way. 

"Please, sir!" he begged. "If I was to permit that, sir, it might costme my position. "

"Well--"

P. Sybarite drew back, relenting. 

But at this juncture, from a point directly over their heads, thevoice of Brian Shaynon himself interrupted them. 

"Who is that, Soames?" he called impatiently, without making himselfimmediately visible. "Has Mr. Bayard returned?"

"No, sir, " the butler called, distressed. "It's--it's a person, sir--insists on seein' you--says 'is nime's Nemmysis. "

"_What!_"

"He has it right--Nemesis, " P. Sybarite replied incisively. "And youmay as well see me now, whether you want to or not. Sooner or lateryou'll have to!"

There was a sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the upper landing, and Brian Shaynon showed himself at the head of the stairs; nowwithout his furred great-coat, but still in the evening dress ofelderly Respectability--Respectability sadly rumpled and maltreated, the white shield of his bosom no longer lustrous and immaculate, histie twisted wildly beneath one ear, his collar unbuttoned, as thoughwrenched from its fastenings in a moment of fury. These things apart, he had within the hour aged ten years in the flesh: gone the proudflush of his bewhiskered gills, in its place leaden pallor; and gonethe quick, choleric fire from eyes now smouldering, dull and all butlifeless.... 

He stood peering down, with an obvious lack of recognition that hintedat failing sight. 

"I don't seem to know you, " he said slowly, with a weary shake of hishead; "and it's most inopportune--the hour. I fear you must excuseme. "

"That can't be, " P. Sybarite returned. "I've business withyou--important. Perhaps you didn't catch the name I gave yourbutler--Nemesis. "

"Nemesis?" Shaynon repeated vacantly. He staggered and descended astep before a groping hand checked him on the baluster-rail. "Nemesis!Is this an untimely joke of some sort, sir?"

His accents quavered querulously; and P. Sybarite with a flash ofscorn put his unnatural condition down to drink. 

"Far from it, " he retorted ruthlessly. "The cat's out, my friend--yourbag lean and flapping emptiness! What, " he demanded sternly--"whathave you done with Marian Blessington?"

"Mar--Marian?" the old voice iterated. "Why, she"--the man pulledhimself together with a determined effort--"she's in her room, ofcourse. Where should she be?"

"Is that true?" P. Sybarite demanded of the butler in a manner soperemptory that the truth slipped out before the fellow realised it. 

"Miss Marian 'asn't returned as yet from the ball, " he whispered. "'E--'e's not quite 'imself, sir. 'E's 'ad a bit of a shock, as onemight s'y. I'd go easy on 'im, if you'll take a word from me. "

But P. Sybarite traversed his advice without an instant'sconsideration. 

"Brian Shaynon, " he called, "you lie! The police have caught RedNovember; they'll worm the truth out of him within twenty minutes, ifI don't get it from you now. The game's up. Come! What have you donewith the girl?"

For all answer, a low cry, like the plaint of a broken-hearted child, issued from the leaden, writhen lips of the old man. 

And while he stared in wonder, Brian Shaynon seemed suddenly to losethe strength of his limbs. His legs shook beneath him as with a palsy;and then, knees buckling, he tottered and plunged headlong from top tobottom of the staircase. 

XX

NOVEMBER

"E's gone, " the butler announced. 

Kneeling beside the inert body of Brian Shaynon, where it had lodgedon a broad, low landing three steps from the foot of the staircase, heturned up to P. Sybarite fishy, unemotional eyes in a pasty fat face. 

The little man said nothing. 

Resting a hand on the newel-post, he looked down unmoved upon themortal wreck of him who had been his life's bane. Brian Shaynon lay indeath without majesty; a crumpled and dishevelled ruin of flesh andclothing, its very insentience suggesting to the morbid fancy of thelittle Irishman something foul and obscene. Brian Shaynon living hadbeen to him a sight less intolerable.... 

"Dead, " the butler affirmed, releasing the pulseless leaden wrist, andrising. "I presume I'd best call 'is doctor, 'adn't I, sir?"

P. Sybarite nodded indifferently. Profound thought enwrapped him likea mantle. 

The butler lingered, the seals of professional reticence broken bythis strange and awful accident. But there was no real emotion in histemper--only curiosity, self-interest, the impulse of loquacity. 

"Stroke, " he observed thoughtfully, fingering his pendulous jowls andstaring; "that's w'at it was--a stroke, like. He'd 'ad a bit of shockbefore you come in, sir. "

"Yes?" murmured P. Sybarite absently. 

"Yes, sir; a bit of a shock, owin' to 'is 'avin' quarrelled with Mr. Bayard, sir. "

"Oh!" P. Sybarite roused. "Quarrelled with his son, you say?"

"Yes, sir; somethin' dreadful they was goin' on. 'E couldn't 'ave gotover it when you come. Mr. Bayard 'adn't been gone, not more thanfive minutes, sir. "

P. Sybarite interrogated with his eyes alone. 

"It was a bit odd, come to think of it--the 'ole affair, sir. Must'ave been over an hour ago, Mr. Shaynon 'ere, 'e come 'ome alone fromthe dance--I see you must've been there yourself, sir, if I m'y mikeso bold as to tike notice of your costume. Very fawncy it is, too, sir--becomes your style 'andsome, it does, sir. "

"Never mind me. What happened when Mr. Shaynon came home?"

"W'y, 'e 'adn't more than got inside the 'ouse, sir, w'en a lidycalled on 'im--a lidy as I 'ad never set eyes on before, sime as inyour caise, sir; although I wouldn't 'ave you think I mean she was ofyour clawss, sir. 'Ardly. Properly speakin', she wasn't a lidy atall--but a woman. I mean to s'y, a bit flash. "

"I understand you. Go on. "

"Well, sir, I didn't 'ave a chance to over'ear w'at 'er business were, but it seemed to work on Mr. Brian there somethin' 'orrid. They wascloseted in the library upstairs not more than twenty minutes, andthen she went, and 'e rung for me and to bring 'im brandy and notdelay about it. 'E nearly emptied the decanter, too, before Mr. Bayardgot 'ere. And the minute they come together, it was 'ammer-and-tongs. 'Ot _and_ 'eavy they 'ad it for upwards of an _hour_, be'ind closeddoors, sime as like with the lidy. But w'en Mr. Bayard, 'e come to go, sir, the old gent follows 'im to the landin'--just where 'e was whenhe spoke to you, sir, before 'e 'ad the stroke--and 'e says to 'im, says 'e: 'Remember, I cawst you off. Don't come to me for nothin'after this. Don't ever you darken my doorstep ag'in, ' 'e says. And Mr. Bayard, sir, 'e ups and laughs fiendish in 'is own father's fice. 'You've got another guess comin', ' he mocks 'im open': 'you're in thisbusiness as deep as me, ' 'e says, 'and if you cross me, I'lldouble-cross you, s'elp me Gawd, and in the newspapers, too. ' And withthat, out 'e went in a rige. "

"So that was the way of it!" P. Sybarite commented dully. 

So Mrs. Inche had sought the father to revenge herself upon the son;and with this outcome--Bayard unharmed, his father dead!... 

"That was hexactly 'ow it 'appened, sir, " affirmed the butler, rubbinghis fat old hands. 

"You 're wasting time. Go telephone the doctor, " said P. Sybaritesuddenly. 

"Right you are, sir. But there's no real 'urry. He's dead as GuyFawkes, and no doctor livin'--"

"Nevertheless, telephone--if you don't want to get into trouble. "

"Quite right, sir. I'll do so at once. "

Turning, the man waddled off, disappearing toward the back of thehouse. 

Alone, with neither hesitation nor a single backward glance at thebody of his ancient enemy, the little man swung about, walked quietlyto the front door, and as quietly let himself out. 

He was of no mind to be called as a witness at a possible inquest; andbusiness of far greater import urged him, the real business of hislife, this: to discover the whereabouts of Marian Blessington with theleast avoidable delay. 

His first cast having failed, he must now try to draw the son; and, ifpossible, before the latter learned of his father's death. 

Not until about to re-enter the car did he remember he had neglectedto secure Bayard's address from the butler. But he wouldn't turn back;it could be ascertained elsewhere; Peter Kenny would either know it orknow where to get it. 

To Peter's rooms he must of necessity return first of all; for itwould not much longer prove possible to go up and down and to and froupon Manhattan Island in a black silk dress-coat and flaming scarletsmall-clothes; to change was imperative. 

"The Monastery, " he directed, settling back into his seat. 

It was now clear daylight: a morning of bright promise breaking over aTown much livelier than it had been half an hour or so ago, with morecitizens abroad, some striding briskly to the day's work, sometrudging wearily from the night's. 

Over all brooded still that effect of illusion: this might have been, almost, a foreign city into whose streets he was adventuring for thefirst time, so changed and strange seemed everything in his eyes. 

P. Sybarite himself felt old and worn and tired, and with a thoughtfulfinger rubbed an over-night growth of stubble upon his chin.... 

"Wait, " he told the driver, on alighting at the Monastery; "I'mkeeping you. "

Money passed between them--more than enough to render his wishesinviolable. 

A dull-eyed hallboy recognised and let him in, sullenly passing him onto the elevator; but as that last was on the point of taking flight toPeter Kenny's door, it hesitated; and the operator, with his hand onthe half-closed gate, shot it open again instead of shut. 

A Western Union messenger-boy, not over forty years tired, was beingadmitted at the street door. The colloquy there was distinctlyaudible:

"Mr. Bayard Shaynon?"

"'Leventh floor. Hurry up--don't keep the elevator waitin'. "

"Ah--ferget it!"

Whistling softly, the man with the yellow envelope ambled nonchalantlyinto the cage; fixed the operator with a truculent stare, and demandedthe eleventh floor. 

Now Peter Kenny's rooms were on the twelfth.... 

The telegram with its sprawling endorsement in ink, "_Mr. BayardShaynon, Monastery Apartments_, " was for several moments within twofeet of P. Sybarite's nose. 

It was, indeed, anything but easy to keep from pouncing upon thatwretched messenger, ravishing him of the envelope (which he was nowemploying artfully to split a whistle into two equal portions--andfavour to none), and making off with it before the gate of theelevator could close. 

Impossible to conjecture what intimate connection it might not havewith the disappearance of Marian Blessington, what a flood of light itmight not loose upon that dark intrigue!

Indeed, the speculations this circumstance set awhirl in P. Sybarite'sweary head were so many and absorbing that he forgot altogether to besurprised or gratified by the favour of _Kismet_ which had causedtheir paths to cross at precisely that instant, as if solely that hemight be informed of Bayard Shaynon's abode.... 

"What door?" demanded Western Union as he left the cage at theeleventh floor. 

"Right across the hall. "

The gate clanged, the cage mounted to the next floor, and P. Sybaritegot out, requiring no direction: for Peter Kenny's door wasimmediately above Bayard Shaynon's. 

As he touched the bell-button for the benefit of the elevator man--butfor his own, failed to press it home--the grumble of the door-bellbelow could be heard faintly through muffling fire-brick walls. 

The grumble persisted long after the elevator had dropped back to theeleventh floor. 

And presently the voice of Western Union was lifted in sourexpostulation:

"Sa-ay, whatcha s'pose 's th' matta wid dis guy? I' been ringin'haffanour!"

"That's funny, " commented the elevator boy: "he came in only about tenminutes ago. "

"Yuh wuddn' think he cud pass away 's quick 's all that--wuddja?"

"Ah, I dunno. Mebbe he had a bun on when he come in. Gen'ly has. Ididn' notice. "

"Well, th' way he must be poundin' his ear now--notta hear disracket--yud think he was trainin' for a Rip van Winkle Marathon. "

Pause--made audible by the pertinacious bell, grinding away like adentist's drill in a vacant tooth.... 

"Waitin' here all day won't get me nothin'. Here, what's th' matta widyou signin' for't?"

"G'wan. Sign it yourself 'nd stick unda the door, whydoncha?"

Second pause--the bell boring on, but more faintheartedly, as ifdoubting whether it ever would reach that nerve. 

Finally Western Union gave it up. 

"A'right. Guess I will. "

Clang of the gate: whine of the descending car: silence.... 

Softly P. Sybarite tiptoed down the stairs. 

Disappointment, however, lay in ambush for him at his nefarious goal:evidently Western Union had been punctilious about his duty; not evenso much as the tip of a corner of yellow envelope peeped from underthe door. 

Reckless in exasperation, P. Sybarite first wasted time educing aseries of short, sharp barks from the bell--a peculiarly irritatingnoise, calculated (one would think) to rouse the dead--then tried thedoor and, finding it fast, in the end knelt and bent an ear to thekeyhole, listening.... 

Not a sound: silence of the grave; the house deathly still. He couldhear his own heart drumming; but, from Shaynon's flat, nothing.... 

Or--was that the creak of a board beneath a stealthy footstep?

If so, it wasn't repeated.... 

Again, could it be possible his ears did actually detect a sound ofhuman respiration through the keyhole? Was Bayard Shaynon just theother side of that inch-wide pressed-steel barrier, the fire-proofdoor, cowering in throes of some paralysing fright, afraid to answerthe summons?... 

If so, why? What did he fear? The police, perhaps? And if so--why?What crime had become his so to unman him that he dared not open andput his fate to the test?... 

Quickly there took shape in the imagination of the little Irishman ahideous vision of mortal Fear, wild-eyed, white-lipped, and alla-tremble, skulking in panic only a little beyond his reach: a fancythat so worked upon his nerves that he himself seemed infected withits shuddering dread, and thought to feel the fine hairs a-crawl onhis neck and scalp and his flesh a-creep. 

When at length he rose and drew away it was with all stealth, asthough he too moved in the shadow of awful terror bred of a namelesscrime.... 

Once more at Peter Kenny's door, his diffident fingers evoked from thebell but a single chirp--a sound that would by no means have gainedhim admission had Peter not been sitting up in bed, reading to whileaway the ache of his wound. 

But it was ordered so; Peter was quick to answer the door; and P. Sybarite, pulling himself together (now that he had audience criticalof his demeanour) walked in with a very tolerable swagger--with acareless, good-humoured nod for his host and a quick look round theroom to make certain they were alone. 

"Doctor been?"

"Oh--an hour ago. "

"And--?"

"Says I'm all right if blood-poisoning doesn't set in. "

Shutting the door, Peter grinned not altogether happily. "That's oneof the most fetching features of the new code of medical ethics, youknow--complete confidence inspired in patient by utter frankness ondoctor's part--and all that!... 

"'An insignificant puncture, '" he mimicked: "'you'll be right as rainin a week--unless the wound decides to gangrene--it's apt to, all onits own, 'spite of anything we can do--in which case we'll have toamputate your body to prevent infection spreading to your head. '... 

"Well?" he wound up almost gaily. "What luck?"

"The worst. Where are my rags? I've got to change and run. Also--whileyou're up"--Peter had just dropped into a chair--"you might be goodenough to mix me a Scotch and soda. "

Whereupon, while changing his clothes, and between breaths and gulpsof whiskey-and-water, P. Sybarite delivered himself of an abbreviatedsummary of what had happened at the ball and after. 

"But why, " he wound up peevishly--"_why_ didn't you tell me BayardShaynon lived in the flat below you?"

"Didn't occur to me; and if you ask me, I don't see why it shouldinterest you now. "

"Because, " said P. Sybarite quietly, "I'm going down there and breakin as soon as I'm dressed fit to go to jail. "

"In the sacred name of Insanity--!"

"If he's out, I'll steal that telegram and find out whether it has anybearing on the case. If it hasn't, I'll sift every inch of the roomfor a suspicion of a leading clue. "

"But if he's in--?"

"I'll take my chances, " said P. Sybarite with grim brevity. 

"Unarmed?"

"Not if I know the nature of the brute. " He stood up, fully dressedbut for his shoes. "Now--my gun, please. "

"Top drawer of the buffet there. How are you going? Fire escape?"

"Where is it?" P. Sybarite asked as he possessed himself of hisweapon. 

"Half a minute. " Peter Kenny held out his hand. "Let's have a look atthat gun--will you?"

"What for?"

"One of those newfangled automatic pistols--isn't it? I 've never seenone before. "

"But--Great Scott!--you've had this here--"

"I know, but I didn't pay much attention--thinking of other things--"

"But you're delaying me--"

"Mean to, " said Peter Kenny purposefully; and without giving P. Sybarite the least hint of his intention, suddenly imprisoned hiswrist, grabbed the weapon by the barrel, and took it to himself--withthe greater ease since the other neither understood nor attemptedresistance. 

"What in blazes--?" he enquired, puzzled, watching Peter turn theweapon over curiously in his hands. "I should think--"

"There!" Peter interrupted placidly, withdrawing the magazine clipfrom its slot in the butt and returning the now harmless mechanism. "Now run along. Fire-escape's outside the far window in the bedroom, yonder. "

"What the deuce! What's the matter with you? Hand over that clip. Whatgood is this gun without it?"

"For your present purpose, it's better than if loaded, " Peter assertedcomplacently. "For purposes of intimidation--which is all you want ofit--grand! And it can't go off by accident and make you anunintentional murderer. "

P. Sybarite's jaw dropped and his eyes opened; but after an instant, he nodded in entire agreement. 

"That's a head you have on your shoulders, boy!" said he. "As formine, I've a notion that it has never really jelled. "

He turned toward the bedroom, but paused. 

"Only--why not say what you want? Why these roundabout ways to yourpurpose? Have you, by any chance, been educated for the bar?"

"That's the explanation, " laughed Peter. "I'm to be admitted topractise next year. Meanwhile, circumlocution's my specialty. "

"It is!" said P. Sybarite with conviction. "Well ... Back in fiveminutes.... "

Of all his weird adventures, this latest pleased him least. It's onething to take chances under cover of night when your heart is light, your pockets heavy, and wine is buzzing wantonly within your head: butanother thing altogether to burglarise your enemy's apartments via thefire-escape, in broad daylight, and cold-sober. For by now the lightwas clear and strong, in the open. 

Yet to his relief he found no more than limpid twilight in the crampedand shadowed well down which zigzagged the fire-escape; while theopposite wall of the adjoining building ran blind from earth to roof;giving comfortable assurance that none could spy upon him save fromthe Monastery windows. 

"One thing more"--Peter Kenny came to the window to advise, as P. Sybarite scrambled out upon the gridiron platform--"Shaynon's flatisn't arranged like mine. He's better off than I am, you know--canafford more elbow-room. I'm not sure, but I _think_ you'll breakin--if at all--by the dining-room window.... So long. Good luck!"

Clasping hands, they exchanged an anxious smile before P. Sybaritebegan his cautious descent. 

Not that he found it difficult; the Monastery fire-escape was a seriesof steep flights of iron steps, instead of the primitive verticalladder of round iron rungs in more general use. There was even aguard-rail at the outside of each flight. Consequently, P. Sybaritegained the eleventh floor platform very readily. 

But there he held up a long instant, dashed to discover his task madefacile rather than obstructed. 

The window was wide open, to force whose latch he had thoughtfullyprovided himself with a fruit knife from Peter Kenny's buffet. Withinwas gloom and stillness absolute--the one rendered the more opaque byheavy velvet hangings, shutting out the light; the other with aquality individual and, as P. Sybarite took it, somehowintimidating--too complete in its promise. 

And so for a darkly dubious moment the little man hung back. To hisquick Celtic instinct there seemed to inhere, in that open, dark, andsilent window, something as sinister and repellent as the inscrutable, soundless menace of a revolver presented to one's head. 

Momentarily, indeed, he experienced anew something of that odd terror, unreasoning and inexcusable, that had assailed him some time since, outside the hall-door to this abode of enigmatic and uncanny quiet.... 

But at length, shaking his head impatiently--as if to rid it of itspestering swarm of fancies--he stepped noiselessly, in his unshodfeet, down through the window, cautiously parted the draperies, andadvanced into darkness so thick that there might as well have beennight outside instead of glowing daybreak. 

Then, with eyes becoming accustomed to the change, he made out shapesand masses that first confirmed Peter's surmise as to the nature ofthe room, and next gave him his bearings. 

Over across from the window stood a door, its oblong dimly luminouswith light softly shining down the walls of a private hall, from apoint some distance to the left of the opening. 

Rounding a dining-table, P. Sybarite stole softly on, and paused, listening, just within the threshold. 

From some uncertain quarter--presumably the lighted room--he couldhear a sound, very slight: so slight that it seemed guarded, but nonethe less unmistakable: the hiss of carbonated water squirting from asyphon into a glass. 

Ceasing, a short wait followed and then a faint "_Aah!_" ofsatisfaction, with the thump of a glass set down upon some hardsurface. 

And at once, before P. Sybarite could by any means reconcile thesenoises with the summons at the front door that had been ignored withinthe quarter-hour, soft footfalls became audible in the private hall, shuffling toward the dining-room. 

Instinctively the little man drew back (regretful now that he hadyielded to Peter's prejudice against loaded pistols) retreatingsideways along the wall until he had put the bulk of a massive buffetbetween him and the door; and, in the small space between that articleof furniture and the corner of the room, waited with every nerve tautand muscle tense, in full anticipation of incontinent detection. 

In line with these apprehensions, the footsteps came no further thanthe dining-room door; then died out for what seemed full twominutes--a pause as illegible to his understanding as their manifeststealth. 

Why need Shaynon take such elaborate precautions against noises in hisown lodgings?

Suddenly, and more confidently, the footfalls turned into thedining-room; and without glance right or left a man strode directly tothe open window. There for an instant he delayed with an eye to thecrack between the curtains; then, reassured, thrust one aside andstepped into the embrasure, there to linger with his head out of thewindow, intently reconnoitering, long enough to enable P. Sybarite tomake an amazing discovery: the man was not Bayard Shaynon. 

In silhouette against the light, his slight and supple form wasunmistakable to one who had seen it before, even though his face wasdisfigured by a scant black visor across his eyes and the bridge ofhis nose. 

He was Red November. 

[Illustration: He was Red November. ]

What P. Sybarite would have done had he been armed is problematical. What he did was remain moveless, even as he was breathless andpowerless, but for his naked hands, either for offence or defence. Forthat November was armed was as unquestionable as his mastery of thelong-barrelled revolver of blue steel (favoured by gunmen of theunderworld) which he held at poise all the while he carefully surveyedhis line of retreat. 

At length, releasing the curtain, the gang leader hopped lightly outupon the grating, and disappeared. 

In another breath P. Sybarite himself was at the window. A singleglance through the curtains showed the grating untenanted; and boldlypoking his head forth, he looked down to see the figure of the gunman, foreshortened unrecognisably, moving down the iron tangle alreadyseveral flights below, singularly resembling a spider in someextraordinary web. 

Incontinently, the little man ran back through the dining-room anddown the private hall, abandoning every effort to avoid a noise. 

No need now for caution, if his premonition wasn't worthless--if thevengeful spirit of Mrs. Inche had not stopped short of embroiling sonwith father, but had gone on to the end ominously shadowed forth bythe appearance of the gunman in those rooms.... 

What he saw from the threshold of the lighted room was Bayard Shaynonstill in death upon the floor, one temple shattered by a shot fired atclose range from a revolver that lay with butt close to his righthand--carefully disposed with evident intent to indicate a case ofsuicide rather than of murder. 

XXI

THE SORTIE

At pains not to stir across the threshold, with quick glances P. Sybarite reviewed scrupulously the scene of November's crime. 

Eventually his nod indicated a contemptuous conclusion: that it shouldnot prove difficult to convict November on the evidence afforded bythe condition of the apartment alone. A most superficial inspectionought to convince anybody, even one prone to precipitate conclusions, that Bayard Shaynon had never died by his own hand. 

If November, in depositing the instrument of his crime close to thehand of its victim, had meant to mislead, to create an inference of_felo de se_, he had ordered all his other actions with a carelessnessarguing one of three things: cynical indifference to the actualoutcome of his false clue; sublime faith in the stupidity of thepolice; or a stupidity of his own as crass as that said to becharacteristic of the average criminal in all ages. 

The rooms, in short, had been most thoroughly if hastily ransacked--insearch, P. Sybarite didn't for an instant doubt, of evidence as to therelations between Shaynon and Mrs. Inche calculated to proveincriminating at an inquest; though the little man entertained evenless doubt that lust for loot had likewise been a potent motiveinfluencing November. 

He found proof enough of this in the turned-out pockets of themurdered man; in the abstraction from the bosom of his shirt of pearlstuds which P. Sybarite had noticed there within the hour; in theabraded knuckles of a finger from which a conspicuous solitairediamond in massive antique setting was missing; in a pigskinbill-fold, empty, ripped, turned inside out, and thrown upon the floornot far from the corpse. 

Then, too, in one corner stood a fine old mahogany desk of quaintdesign and many drawers and pigeonholes, one and all sacked, theircontents turned out to litter the floor. In another corner, a curiocabinet had fared as ill. Even bookcases had not been overlooked, andstood with open doors and disordered shelves. 

Not, however, with any notion of concerning himself with theassassin's apprehension and punishment did P. Sybarite waste thatmoment of hasty survey. His eyes were only keen and eager to descrythe yellow Western Union message; and when he had looked everywhereelse, his glance dropped to his feet and found it there--a torn andcrumpled envelope with its enclosure flattened out and apart from it. 

This last he snatched up, but the envelope he didn't touch, havingbeen quick to remark the print upon it of a dirty thumb whosecounterpart decorated the face of the message as well. 

"And a hundred more of 'em, probably, " P. Sybarite surmised as to thenumber of finger marks left by November: "enough to hang him ten timesover ... Which I hope and pray they don't before I finish with him!"

As for the dead man, he read his epitaph in a phrase, accompanied by ameaning nod toward the disfigured and insentient head. 

"It was coming to you--and you got it, " said P. Sybarite callously, with never a qualm of shame for the apathy with which he contemplatedthis second tragedy in the house of Shaynon. 

Too much, too long, had he suffered at its hands.... 

With a shrug, he turned back to the hall door, listened an instant, gently opened it--with his handkerchief wrapped round the polishedbrass door-knob to guard against clues calculated to involve himself, whether as imputed principal or casual witness after the fact. For hefelt no desire to report the crime to the police: let them find it outat their leisure, investigate and take what action they would; P. Sybarite had lost no love for the force that night, and meant to useit only at a pinch--as when, perchance, its services might promise toelicit the information presumably possessed by Red November in regardto the fate of Marian Blessington.... 

The public hall was empty, dim with the light of a single electricbulb, and still as the chamber of death that lay behind. 

Never a shadow moved more silently or more swiftly than P. Sybarite, when he had closed the door, up the steps to Peter Kenny's rooms. Hardly a conceivable sound could be more circumspect than that whichhis knuckles drummed on the panels of Peter's door. And Peter earned aheartfelt, instant, and ungrudged blessing by opening without delay. 

"Well?" he asked, when P. Sybarite--with a gesture enforcing temporarysilence--had himself shut the door without making a sound. "Good Lord, man! You look as if you'd seen a ghost. "

On the verge of agitated speech P. Sybarite checked to shake anaggrieved head. 

"Bromides are grand for the nerves, " he observed cuttingly, "butyou're too young to need 'em--and I want none now.... Listen to me. "

Briefly he told his story. 

"Well, but the telegram?" Peter insisted. "Does it help--tell youanything? It's maddening--to think Marian may be in the power of thatbloodthirsty--!"

"There you go again!" P. Sybarite complained--"and not two minutes agoI warned you about that habit. Wait: I've had time only to run an eyethrough this: let me get the sense of it. "

Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message insilence:

 BAYARD SHAYNON Monastery Apts. , W. 43rd, N. Y. C. 

 Your wire received all preparations made send patient in charge as indicated at convenience legal formalities can wait as you suggest. 

 HAYNES PRIVATE SANATORIUM. 

Blankly Peter Kenny looked at his cousin; with eyes in which deepeningunderstanding mingled with anger as deep, and with profound misgivingsas well, P. Sybarite returned his stare. 

"It's as plain as the face on you, Peter Kenny. Why, all along I'vehad an indefinite notion that something of the sort was what they werebrewing! Don't you see--'private sanatorium'? What more proof do youneed of a plot to railroad Marian to a private institution for theinsane? 'Legal formalities can wait as you suggest'--of course! Theyhadn't had time to cook up the necessary papers, to suborn medicalcertificates and purchase a commitment paper of some corrupt judge. But what of that?" P. Sybarite demanded, slapping the messagefuriously. "She was in the way--at large--liable at any time to dosomething that would put her money forever out of their reach. Therefore she must be put away at once, pending 'legal formalities' toensure her permanent incarceration!"

"The dogs!" Peter Kenny growled. 

"But consider how they've been served out--thunderbolts--justice fromthe very skies! All except one, and, " said P. Sybarite solemnly, "Goddo so to me and more also if he's alive or outside bars before thissun sets!"

"Who?"

"November!"

"What can you do to him?"

"To begin with, beat him to that damned asylum. Fetch me the suburbantelephone directory. "

"Telephone directory?"

"Yes!" P. Sybarite raved. "What else? Where is it? And where are yourwits?"

"Why, here--"

Turning, Peter took the designated volume from its hook beneath thewall instrument at the very elbow of P. Sybarite. 

"I thought, " he commented mildly, "you had all _your_ wits about youand could see it. "

"Don't be impudent, " grumbled P. Sybarite, rapidly thumbing the pages. "Westchester, " he muttered, adding: "Oscahana--H--Ha--H-a-d--"

"Are you dotty?"

"Look at that telegram. It's dated from Oscahana: that's somewhere inWestchester, if I'm not mistaken. Yes; here we are: H-a-y--HaynesPrivate Sanatorium--number, Oscahana one-nine. You call 'em. "

"What shall I say?"

"Where the devil's that cartridge clip you took away from me?... Giveit here.... And I want my money. "

"But, " Peter protested in a daze, handing over the clip and watchingP. Sybarite rummage in the buffet drawer wherein he had banked hisfortune before setting out for the Bizarre--"but what do you want meto--"

"Call up that sanatorium--find out if Marian has arrived. If she has, threaten fire and sword and--all that sort of thing--if they don'trelease her--hand her over to me on demand. If she hasn't, make 'emunderstand I'll dynamite the place if they let November bring herthere and get away before I show up. Tell 'em to call in the policeand pinch November on sight. And then get a lawyer and send him upthere after me. And then--set the police after November--tell 'em youheard the shot and went down the fire-escape to investigate.... I'moff. "

The door slammed on Peter as Bewilderment. 

In the hall, savagely punching the elevator bell, P. Sybarite employedthe first part of an enforced wait to return the clip of cartridges toits chamber in the butt of Mrs. Inche's pistol.... 

He punched the bell again.... 

He put his thumb upon the button and held it there.... 

From the bottom of the twelve-story well a faint, shrilltintinnabulation echoed up to him. But that was all. The car itselfnever stirred. 

Infuriated, he left off that profitless employment and threw himselfdown the stairs, descending in great bounds from landing to landing, more like a tennis ball than a fairly intelligent specimen of maturehumanity in control of his own actions. 

Expecting to be met by the ascending car before halfway to the bottom, he came to the final flight not only breathless but in a toweringrage--contemplating nothing less than a murderous assault as soon ashe might be able to lay hands upon the hallboys--hoping to find themtogether that he might batter their heads one against the other. 

But he gained the ground-floor lobby to find it as empty as his ownastonishment--its doors wide to the cold air of dawn, its lightsdimmed to the likeness of smouldering embers by the stark refulgenceof day; but nowhere a sign of a hallboy or anything else in humanguise. 

As he paused to make sure of the reality of this phenomenon, andincidentally to regain his breath, there sounded from a distance downthe street a noise the like of which he had never before heard: anoise resembling more than anything else the almost simultaneousdetonations of something like half a dozen firecrackers of sub-cannoncalibre. 

Without understanding this or even being aware that he had willed hislimbs to action, P. Sybarite found himself in the street. 

At the curb his hired car waited, its motor purring sweetly but itschauffeur missing. 

Subjectively he was aware that the sun was up and high enough to throwa sanguinary glare upon the upper stories of the row of garages acrossthe street--those same from whose number he had chartered his touringcar. And momentarily he surmised that perhaps the chauffeur hadstrolled over to the garage on some idle errand. 

But no sooner had this thought enhanced his irritation than he had itsrefutation in the discovery of the chauffeur affectionately embracinga lamp-post three or four doors away, toward Sixth Avenue; and sosingular seemed this sight that P. Sybarite wondered if, by anychance, the fellow had found time to get drunk during so brief a wait. 

At once, blind to all else, and goaded intolerably by his knowledgethat the time was short if he were to forestall November at the asylumin Oscahana, he pelted hot-foot after the delinquent; came up with himin a trice; tapped him smartly on the shoulder. 

"Here!" he cried indignantly--"what the deuce's the matter with you?"

The man showed him a face pale with excitement; recognised hisemployer; but made no offer to stir. 

"Come!" P. Sybarite insisted irascibly. "I've no time to waste. Get amove on you, man!"

But as he spoke his accents were blotted out by a repetition of thatportentous noise which had saluted him in the lobby of the Monastery, a moment since. 

His eyes, veering inevitably toward the source of that uproar, foundit quickly enough to see short, vicious jets of flame licking outagainst the gloom of an open garage doorway, nearly opposite theHippodrome stage entrance--something like a hundred feet down thestreet. 

"What, " he cried, "in Hades--!"

"Gang fight, " his chauffeur informed him briefly: "fly-cops cornered abunch of 'em in November's garage--"

"_Whose_ garage--?"

"Red November's! Guess you've heard of him, " the man pursued eagerly. "That's right--he runs his own garage--taxis for Dutch House souses, yunno--"

"Wait!" P. Sybarite interrupted. "Let me get this straight. "

Stimulated by this news, his wits comprehended the situation at aglance. 

At the side of his chauffeur, he found himself in line with a numberof that spontaneous class which at the first hint of sensation springsup from nowhere in the streets of Manhattan. Early as was the hour, they were already quite fifty strong; and every minute broughtre-enforcements straggling up from Fifth Avenue. 

But the lamp-post--still a mute, insensate recipient of thechauffeur's amorous clasp--marked a boundary beyond which curiosityfailed to allure. 

Similarly at Sixth Avenue, a rabble was collecting, blocking theroadway and backing up to the Elevated pillars and surface-cartracks--but to a man balking at an invisible line drawn from corner tocorner. 

Midway, the dark open doorway to November's garage yawnedforbiddingly; and in all the space that separated these two gatheringsof spectators, there were visible just three human figures: auniformed patrolman, and two plain-clothes men--the former at adiscreet distance, the two latter more boldly stationed and holdingrevolvers ready for instant employment. 

"Fly-cops, " the chauffeur named the two in citizen's clothing: "Ipiped 'em stickin' round while you was inside, an' was wonderin' whatthey was after, when all of a sudden I sees November duck up from thebasement next door to the Monastery, and they tries to jump him. Thatain't two minutes ago. November dodges, pulls a gun, and fights 'emoff until he can back into the garage--"

A hand holding an automatic edged into sight round the corner of thegarage door--and the pistol sang like a locust. Instantly one of thedetectives fired. The pistol clattered to the walk as the handdisappeared. One shot at least had told for law and order. 

"Anybody hurt yet?" P. Sybarite asked. 

"Not that I know anythin' about. "

"But what do you suppose makes 'em keep that door open? You'd think--"

"The way I figure it, " the chauffeur cut in, "Red's plannin' to makehis getaway in a car. He's just waitin' till the goin' looks good, andthen he'll sail outa there like a streak of greased lightnin'. Yuhwanta be ready to duck, too, 'cause he'll come this way, an' keep gunsgoin' to prevent anybody from hinderin' him. "

"Why this way? Sixth Avenue's nearer. "

"Sure it is, but that way he'd have them L pillars to duck, to saynothin' of the crowd, and no tellin' but what a surface-car mightblock him. Yuh watch an' see 'f I ain't doped it out right. "

From the dark interior of the besieged garage another automaticfluttered briskly; across the street a window fell in.... 

"Look here--you come with me, " said P. Sybarite suddenly, plucking hischauffeur by the sleeve. 

With a reluctant backward glance, the man suffered himself to be drawnapart from the crowd. 

"How much nerve have you got?" the little Irishman demanded. 

"Who--me? Why?"

"I want to stop this getaway--"

"Not for mine, friend. " The chauffeur laughed scornfully. "I ain'tlost no Red November!"

"Will a thousand dollars make you change your mind?"

The chauffeur's eyes narrowed. 

"Whatcha drivin' at? Me--why--I'd take a lotta chances for athousand. "

"Help me--do as I say--and it's yours. "

"Lead me to the coin, " was the prompt decision. 

"Here, then!"

P. Sybarite delved hastily into a trousers pocket and produced ahandful of bills of large denominations. 

"There's a five hundred dollar bill to start with, " he rattled, stripping off the first that fell to his fingers--"and here's ahundred--no, here's another five instead. "

"In the mitt, " the chauffeur stipulated simply, extending his palm. "Either you're crazy or I am--but in the mitt, friend, and I'll runthe car right into that garage, 'f you say so. "

"Nothing so foolish as that. " P. Sybarite handed over the two billsand put away the rest of his wealth. "Just jump into that car and beready to swing across the street and block 'em as they come. "

"You're on!" agreed the chauffeur with emotion--carefully putting hismoney away. 

"And a thousand more"--his courage wrung this tribute from P. Sybarite's admiration--"if you're hurt--"

"You're on there, too--and don't think for a minute I'll letchafergit, neither. "

The chauffeur turned to his car, jumped into the driver's seat, andadvanced the spark. The purr of the motor deepened to a leonine growl. 

"Hello!" he exclaimed in surprise, real or feigned, to see P. Sybaritetake the seat by his side. "What t'ell? Who's payin' _you_ to be aGod-forsaken ass?"

"Did you think I'd ask you to run a risk that frightened me?"

"Dunno's I thought much about it, but 'f yuh wanta know what I thinknow, _I_ think you oughta get a rebate outa whatcha give me--if youlive to apply for it. And I don't mind tellin' you, if you do, youwon't get it. "

Again the spiteful drumming of the automatic: P. Sybarite swung roundin time to see one of the plain-clothes men return the fire withseveral brisk shots, then abruptly drop his revolver, clap a hand tohis bosom, wheel about-face, and fall prone. 

A cry shrilled up from the bystanders, only to be drowned out byanother, but fortunately more harmless, fusillade from the garage. 

"Tunin' up!" commented the chauffeur grimly. "Sounds to me like theywas about ready to commence!"

P. Sybarite shut his teeth on a nervous tremor and lost a shade or twoof colour. 

"Ready?" he said with difficulty. 

The chauffeur's reply was muffled by another volley; on the echoes ofwhich the little man saw the nose of a car poke diagonally out of thegarage door, pause, swerve a trifle to the right, and pause onceagain.... 

"They're coming!" he cried wildly. "Stand by, quick!"

The alarm was taken up and repeated by two-score throats, while thosedotting the street and sidewalks near by broke in swift panic andbegan madly to scuttle to shelter within doorways and down basementsteps.... 

Like an arrow from the string, November's car broke cover at an angle. Ignoring the slanting way from threshold to gutter, it took the bumpof the curb apparently at full tilt, and skidded to the northern curbbefore it could be brought under control and its course shapedeastward. 

With a shiver P. Sybarite recognised that car. 

It was not the taxicab that he had been led to expect, but the samemaroon-coloured limousine into which he had assisted MarianBlessington at the Bizarre. 

On its front seats were two men--Red November himself at the driver'sside, a revolver in either hand. And the body of the car contained onepassenger, at least, if P. Sybarite might trust to an impressiongained in one hasty glance through the forward windows as the car boredown upon them--November's weapons spitting fire.... 

He could not say who that one passenger might be; but he could guess;and guessing, knew the automatic in his grasp to be useless; he darednot fire at the gangster for fear of loosing a wild bullet into thebody of the car.... 

Now they were within fifty feet of one another. By contrast with theapparent slowness of the touring car to get in motion, the limousineseemed already to have attained locomotive speed. 

A yell and a shot from one of November's revolvers (P. Sybarite sawthe bullet score the asphalt not two feet from the forward wheel)warned them to clear the way as the gang leader's car swerved wide topass them. 

And on this the touring car seemed to get out of control, swingingacross the street. Immediately the other, crowded to the gutter, attempted to take the curb, but, the wheels meeting it at an angle notsufficiently acute, the manoeuvre failed. To a chorus of yellsNovember's driver shut down the brakes not a thought too soon--notsoon enough, indeed, to avoid a collision that crumpled a mudguard asthough it had been a thing of pasteboard. 

Simultaneously P. Sybarite's chauffeur set the brakes, and with theagility of a hounded rabbit seeking its burrow, dived from his seat tothe side of the car farthest from the gangsters. 

In an instant he was underneath it. 

P. Sybarite, on the other hand, had leaped before the accident. 

Staggering a pace or two--and all the time under fire--he at lengthfound his feet not six feet from the limousine. It had stoppedbroadside on. In this position he commanded the front seats withoutgreat danger of sending a shot through the body. 

His weapon rose mechanically and quite deliberately he tookaim--making assurance doubly sure throughout what seemed an age madesibilant by the singing past his head of the infuriated gangster'sbullets. 

But his finger never tightened upon the trigger. 

November had ceased firing and was plucking nervously at the slide ofhis automatic. His driver had jumped down from his seat and wasscuttling madly up the street. 

In a breath P. Sybarite realised what was the matter: as automaticswill, when hot with fast firing, November's had choked on an emptyshell. 

With a sob of excitement the little man lowered his weapon and flunghimself upon the gang leader. 

November rose to meet him, reversing his pistol and aiming at P. Sybarite's head a murderous blow. This, however, the little man wasalert to dodge. November came bodily into his arms. Grappling, the tworeeled and went down, P. Sybarite's fingers closing on the throat ofthe assassin just as the latter's head struck the pavement with brutalforce. 

The man shivered, grunted, and lay still. 

P. Sybarite disengaged and got up on his feet. 

XXII

TOGETHER

In a daze, P. Sybarite shook and felt himself all over, unable tocredit his escape from that rain of bullets. 

But he was apparently unharmed. 

_Kismet!_... 

Then suddenly he quickened to the circumstances: the thing wasfinished, November stunned and helpless at his feet, November's drivermaking off, the crowd swarming round, the police an imminent menace. 

Now if Marian were in the body of the town-car, as he believed, hemust get her out of it and away before the police and detectives couldovertake and apprehend them both. 

Instant action, inspired audacity, a little luck--and the thing mightpossibly be accomplished. 

His chauffeur was crawling ignominiously out from beneath the touringcar--his countenance livid with grime and the pallor of fright. Meeting the eye of his employer, he grinned a sheepish grin. 

P. Sybarite seized him by the arm. 

"Are you hurt?"

"Not ten cents' worth--much less a thousand dollars! No such luck!"

His mouth to the fellow's ear, P. Sybarite whispered hoarsely andhurriedly:

"Unhook your license number--throw it in the car--get ready to moveon the word--lady in that car--kidnapped--I love her--d'youunderstand?--we must get her away--another thousand in this for you--"

"Gotcha, " the man cut in smartly. "And I'm with you to the last act!Go to it, bo'--I like your style!"

Swinging about, P. Sybarite jumped upon the running-board of themaroon-coloured car, wrenched the door open, and stumbled in. 

In her evening frock and her cloak of furs, Marian lay huddled in acorner, wrists and ankles alike made fast with heavy twine, her mouthclosed tight by a bandanna handkerchief passed round her jaws andknotted at the nape of her neck. Above its folds her face was likesnow, but the little man thought to detect in her staring eyes a hintof intelligence, and on this he counted with all his soul. 

"Don't scream!" he pleaded as, whipping out a pocket knife, he severedher bonds. "Don't do anything but depend on me. Pretend, if you like, you don't know what's happening--likely you don't at that! No matter. Have faith in me; I'll get you clear of this yet!"

He fancied a softening look in those wide and frightened eyes of achild. 

An instant's work loosed her scored and excoriated wrists; in another, the bonds fell from her ankles. Deftly unknotting the bandage thatclosed her mouth, he asked could she walk. With difficulty, in a huskyand painful whisper, but still courageously, she told him yes. 

Hopeful, rather than counting on this assurance, he jumped out andoffered his hand. She put hers into it (and it was cold as ice), stirred, rose stiffly, tottered to the door, and fell into hisarms.... 

A uniformed patrolman, breaking through the crowd about them, seizedP. Sybarite and held him fast. 

"What's this? Who's this?" he gabbled incoherently, brandishing avaguely formidable fist. 

"A lady, you fool!" P. Sybarite snapped. "Let go and catch thatscoundrel over there--if you're worth your salt. "

He waved his free hand broadly in the direction taken by November'sdriver. 

Abruptly and without protest the patrolman released him, butted hisway through the crowd, and disappeared. 

An arm boldly about Marian's waist, P. Sybarite helped her to the stepof the touring car--and blessed that prince among chauffeurs, who wasup and ready in his seat!

But now again he must be hindered: a plain-clothes man dropped a heavyhand upon his shoulder and screwed the muzzle of a revolver into P. Sybarite's ear. 

"Under arrest!" he blatted wildly. "Carrying fire-arms! Causing acrowd to collect--!"

"All right--all right!" P. Sybarite told him roughly. "I admit it. I'mnot resisting, am I? Take that gun out of my ear and help me get thislady into the car before she's trampled and torn to pieces by thesestaring fools!"

Stupidly enough, the man comprehended some part of his admonishment. Staring blankly from the little man to the girl, he pocketed hisweapon and, grasping Marian's arm, assisted her into the touring car. 

"Thanks!" cried P. Sybarite, jumping up on the running-board. "You'remost amiable, my friend!"

And with the heel of his open hand he struck the man forcibly upon thechest, so that he reeled back, tripped over the hapchance foot of aninnocent by-stander, and went sprawling and blaspheming upon his back. 

Somebody laughed hysterically. 

"Go!" P. Sybarite cried to the chauffeur. 

The crowd gave way before the lunge of the car.... 

They were halfway to Fifth Avenue before pursuit was thought of; hadturned the corner before it was fairly started; in five minutes hadthrown it off entirely and were running free at a moderate pace upBroadway just above Columbus Circle.... 

"Where to now, boss?" the chauffeur presently enquired. 

P. Sybarite looked enquiringly at his charge. Since her rescue she hadneither moved nor spoken--had rested motionless in her corner of thetonneau, eyes closed, body relaxed and listless. But now she roused;unveiled the dear wonder of her eyes of brown; even mustered up theghost of a smile. 

"Wherever you think best, " she told him gently. 

"The Plaza? You might be bothered there. We may be traced--we're sureto. This only saves us for the day. To-morrow--reporters--allthat--perhaps. Perhaps not!... Don't you know somebody out of town towhom you could go for the day? Once across the city line, we're safefor a little. "

She nodded: breathed an address in Westchester County.... 

Some time later P. Sybarite became sensible of an amazing fact. A handof his rested on the cushioned seat, and in it lay, now warm andwonderfully soft and light, Marian's hand. 

He stared incredulously until he had confirmed the substance of thisimpression; looked up blinking; met the confident, straightforward, and wistful regard of the girl; and blushed to his brows. 

The car swept on and on, through the golden hush of that gloriousSunday morning.... 

XXIII

PERCEVAL UNASHAMED

Toward ten of that same Sunday morning a touring car of majestic miendrew up in front of a boarding-house in Thirty-eighth Street West. 

From this alighted a little man of somewhat bedraggled appearance, wearing a somewhat weather-beaten but heartfelt grin. 

Ostentatiously (or so it seemed to one solitary and sour-mouthedspectator, disturbed in his perusal of a comic supplement on thebrownstone stoop of the boarding-house) he shook hands with thechauffeur, and, speaking guardedly, confirmed some privateunderstanding with him. 

Then the car rolled off, and P. Sybarite shuffled meekly in throughthe gate, crossed the dooryard, and met the outraged glare of GeorgeBross with an apologetic smile and the request:

"If you've got a pack of Sweets about you, George, I can use one in mybusiness. "

Without abating his manifestation of entire disapproval, Georgeproduced a box of cigarettes, permitted P. Sybarite to select one, andhelped himself. 

They shared a match, even as brothers might, before honest indignationescaped the grim portals of the shipping clerk's mouth. 

"Sa-ay!" he exploded--"looky here: where've you been all night?"

"Ah-h!" P. Sybarite sighed provokingly: "that's a long and tiresomestory, George. "

With much the air of a transient, he sat him down by George's side. 

"A very long and very weary story, George. I don't like to tell it toyou, really. We'd be sure to quarrel. "

"Why?" George demanded aggressively. 

"Because you wouldn't believe me. I don't quite believe it myself, nowthat all's over, barring a page or two. Your great trouble, George, isthat you have no imagination. "

"The devil I ain't!"

"Perfectly right: you haven't. If you point with pride to that wildflight of fancy which identified 'Molly Lessing' with MarianBlessington, George, your position is (as you yourself would say)untenable. It wasn't imagination: it was fact. "

"No!" George ejaculated. "Is that right? What'd I tell you?"

"Word of honour! But it's a secret, as yet--from everybody except youand Violet; and even you we wouldn't tell had you not earned the rightto know by guessing and making me semi-credulous--enough to startsomething--several somethings, in fact. "

"G'wan!" George coaxed. "Feed it to me: I'll eat it right outa yourhand. Whatcha been doin' with yourself all night, P. S. ?"

"I've been Day of Days-ing myself, George. "

"Ah, can the kiddin', P. S. Come through! Whadja do?"

"Broke every Commandment in the Decalogue, George, barring one or twoof the more indelicate ones; kicked the laws of chance and probabilityinto a cocked hat; fractured most of the Municipal Ordinances--and--letme see--oh, yes!--dislocated the Long Arm of Coincidence so badly thatall of its subsequent performances are going to seem stiff and lackingin that air of spontaneity without which--"

"My Gawd!" George despaired--"he's off again on that hardy annualtalkalogue of his!... Lis'n, P. S. --"

"Call me Perceval, " P. Sybarite suggested pleasantly. 

"_Wh-at!_"

"Let it be Perceval hereafter, George--always. I grant you freepermission. "

"But I thought you said--"

"So I did--a few hours ago. Now I--well, I rather like it. It makesall the difference who calls you that sort of name first, and what hervoice is like. "

"One of us, " George protested with profound conviction, "is plumbloony in the head!"

"It's me, " said P. Sybarite humbly: "I admit it.... And the worst ofit is--I like it! So would you if you'd been through a Day of Days. "

George let that pass; for the moment he was otherwise engaged in vainspeculation as to the appearance of a phenomenon rather rare in thecalendar of that West Thirty-eighth Street boarding-house. 

A Western Union boy, weary with the weariness of not less than fortysummers, was shuffling in at the gate. 

"Sa-ay!" he called with the asperity of ingrained ennui--"either ofyouse guys know a guy named Perceval Sybarite 't lives here?"

Silently P. Sybarite held out his hand, took the greasy little book inits black oil-cloth binding, scrawled his signature in the properblank, and received the message in its sealed yellow envelope. 

"Wait, " he commanded calmly, eyeing Western Union with suspicion. 

"W'at's eatin' you? Is they an answer?"

"They ain't no answer, " P. Sybarite admitted. 

"Well, whatcha want? I got no time to stick round here kiddin'. "

"One moment of your valuable time. I believe you delivered a messageat the Monastery Apartments in Forty-third Street this morning. "

"Well, an' what 'f I did?"

"Only this. "

P. Sybarite extracted an immense roll of bills from his pocket;transferred it to his other hand; delved deeper; eventually produced asingle twenty-dollar gold-piece. 

"Take this, " he said, tossing it to the boy with princely nonchalance. "It's the last of a lot, but--it's yours. "

"What for?" Western Union demanded in amaze; while, as for GeorgeBross, _he_ developed plain symptoms of apoplexy. 

"You'll never know, " said P. Sybarite. "Now run along before I cometo. "

In the shadow of this threat, Western Union fled precipitately.... 

P. Sybarite rose; yawned; smiled benignantly upon George Bross. 

"I'm off to bed--was only waiting for this message, " he announced;"but before I go--tell me; how much money does Violet think you oughtto be earning before you're eligible for the Matrimonial Stakes?"

"She said somethin' oncet about fifty per, " George rememberedgloomily. 

"It's yours--doubled, " P. Sybarite told him. "To-morrow you willresign from the employ of Whigham & Wimper and go to Blessington's toenter their shipping department at a hundred a week; and if you don'tearn it, may God have mercy on your wretched soul!"

George got up very suddenly. 

"I'll go send for the doctor, " he announced. 

"One moment more. " P. Sybarite dropped a detaining hand upon his arm. "You and Violet are invited to dinner to-night--at the Hotel Plaza. Don't be alarmed; you needn't dress; we'll dine privately in Marian'sapartment. "

"Marian!"

"Miss Blessington--Molly Lessing that was. "

"Honest!" said George sincerely. "I don't know whether to think you'vegone bughouse or not. You've always been a bit queer and foolish inthe bean, but never since I've known you--"

"And after dinner, " P. Sybarite pursued evenly, "you're going toattend a very quiet little wedding party. "

"Whose, for God's sake?"

"Marian's and mine; and the only reason why you can't be best man isthat the best man will be my cousin, Peter Kenny. "

"Is that straight?"

"On the level. "

George concluded that there was sanity in P. Sybarite's eyes. 

"Well, I certainly got to slip you the congrats!" he protested. "Andsay--you goin' to bounce Whigham and Wimper, too?"

"Yes. "

"And whatcha goin' do then?"

"I? To tell you the truth, I'm considering joining the Union andagitating for an eight-hour Day of Days. This one of mine has beeneighteen hours long, more or less--since I got those theatre tickets, you know--and I'm too dog-tired to keep my eyes open another minute. After I've had a nap, I'll tell you all about everything. " ... 

But he wasn't too tired to read his telegram, when he found himselfagain, and for the last time, in his hall bedroom. 

It said simply: "I love you. --Marian. "

From this P. Sybarite looked up to his reflection in the glass. Andpresently he smiled sheepishly, and blinked. 

"Perceval... !" murmured the little man fondly. 

THE END

_By the author of "The Brass Bowl"_

THE BANDBOX

_By_ LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

Author of "The Day of Days, " "The Destroying Angel, " etc. 

Illustrated by A. I. Keller. Cloth. $1. 25 _net_. 

Divertingly told, in Mr. Vance's familiarly vigorous style, it neverfails to entertain. --_Boston Transcript. _

Mr. Vance uses the wand of a conjurer--his humor comes bubbling to thesurface all the time. --_New York Tribune. _

The yarn is excellently calculated to pass the time of a jaded novelreader.... The story is quite surprising enough, and amusing atthat. --_New York Evening Sun. _

It is a rousing tale of adventure and love told with verve and humor. Many will pronounce it the best story yet written by the author of"The Brass Bowl. "--_Chicago Record-Herald. _

The tale bristles with breathless adventure, mistaken identities, detective investigations, romantic developments, and startlingsituations.... It is a rousing story, told with a stimulating style, and culminating in love rewarded; but, before that happy end isreached, there are many thrilling revelations. --_Literary Digest_, NewYork. 

LITTLE, BROWN, & CO. , PUBLISHERS34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON

_A Curious Story of Woman's Love_

THE DESTROYING ANGEL

By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

Author of "The Bandbox, " "The Day of Days, " etc. 

Illustrated by A. I. Keller. Cloth. $1. 25 _net_. 

Mr. Vance keeps events moving too fast to cast any shadowsbefore. --_New York World. _

A very readable story ... Certainly there is not a dull moment in thebook. --_New York Times. _

It's a good story, well told, with plenty of brisk down-to-date humor, and its few characters stand out well. --_Los Angeles Times. _

Full of romance and strange surprises ... A narrative of dramaticevents, thrilling adventures, and all-conquering passion that makes aswiftly moving tale. --_Philadelphia North American. _

Half a dozen less vigorous and full-blooded stories might be builtfrom the material so lavishly employed ... There is no moment, fromstart to finish, when the story is not absorbing, and the end of thenarrative, which winds to a happy climax, is all that the most ardentromancist could desire. --_Chicago Record-Herald. _

LITTLE, BROWN, & CO. , PUBLISHERS34 BEACON STREETFOSTON