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P. Sybarite complained "and not two minutes ago I warned you about that habit. Wait: I've had time only to run an eye through this: let me get the sense of it." Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message in silence: BAYARD SHAYNON Monastery Apts., W. 43rd, N.Y.C.
"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!" Shaynon blustered. "One moment," P. Sybarite pleaded with a graceful gesture.
I'm not strong for that mind and I'm going to make the lot of you smart for this indignity; but I'm perfectly willing to prove my innocence now, by letting you search me, so long as it affords me an earlier opportunity to catch Mister Shaynon when he hasn't got you to protect him."
In which case the man with the twisted mouth was, more probably than not, none other than that same Bayard Shaynon whom the young lady was reported to have jilted so arbitrarily. Turning the topper over in his hands, it occurred to P. Sybarite to wonder if he did not, in it, hold a valuable clue to this riddle of identity.
Brian Shaynon lay in death without majesty; a crumpled and dishevelled ruin of flesh and clothing, its very insentience suggesting to the morbid fancy of the little Irishman something foul and obscene. Brian Shaynon living had been to him a sight less intolerable.... "Dead," the butler affirmed, releasing the pulseless leaden wrist, and rising. "I presume I'd best call 'is doctor, 'adn't I, sir?"
"I had warned them more than once I'd run away if they didn't let me alone.... You see, Mr. Shaynon insisted it was my father's wish that I should marry Bayard, and on that understanding I promised to marry him when I came into possession of the estate. But that didn't suit or rather, it seemed to satisfy them only for a little time. Very soon they were pestering me again to marry at once.
"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 my honourable Satanic word!" "Who the devil ?" "Whisht!" P. Sybarite reproved.
"You're making a scene " the man flashed, colouring darkly. "And," P. Sybarite interjected quietly, "I'll make it worse if you don't do as Miss Blessington bids you." With a shrug, Shaynon removed his hand; but with no other acknowledgment of the little man's existence, pursued indulgently: "You have your carriage-call check ready, Marian? If you'll let me have it "
"No mask!" stammered the older man, in confusion. "Nay, I am frankly what I am old Evil's self," P. Sybarite explained blandly; "but you, Brian Shaynon now you go always masked: waking or sleeping, hypocrisy's your lifelong mask. You see the distinction, old servant?" In another moment he might have suffered a sound drubbing with the ebony cane but for Peter Kenny's parlour-magic trick.
Kneeling beside the inert body of Brian Shaynon, where it had lodged on a broad, low landing three steps from the foot of the staircase, he turned 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 the mortal wreck of him who had been his life's bane.
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