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And while P. Sybarite gaped, thunderstruck and breathless with the rage excited by this groundless accusation, the detective looked to Shaynon for confirmation. "I stood behind him in the elevator, coming down, ten minutes or so ago," the latter stated heavily. "Mrs. Addison Strone was immediately in front of him. The cage was badly crowded no one could move.
"But why," he wound up peevishly "why didn't you tell me Bayard Shaynon lived in the flat below you?" "Didn't occur to me; and if you ask me, I don't see why it should interest you now." "Because," said P. Sybarite quietly, "I'm going down there and break in as soon as I'm dressed fit to go to jail." "In the sacred name of Insanity !"
The manager, anxiously pacing the floor, after another moment or so paused at the door, fidgeted, jerked it open, and with a muffled "Pardon!" disappeared presumably in search of Shaynon. Striking a match, the detective puffed his cigar aglow. Over its tip his small eyes twinkled at P. Sybarite. "Maybe you're a gentleman crook, and maybe not," he returned with fine impartiality.
The telegram with its sprawling endorsement in ink, "Mr. Bayard Shaynon, Monastery Apartments," was for several moments within two feet of P. Sybarite's nose. Impossible to conjecture what intimate connection it might not have with the disappearance of Marian Blessington, what a flood of light it might not loose upon that dark intrigue!
"You really think it likely that Miss Blessington, hiding from her guardian and anxious to escape detection, would take a job at the glove counter of her own store, where everybody must know her by sight where her guardian, Shaynon himself, couldn't fail to see her at least twice a day, as he enters and leaves the building?" Staggered, Bross recovered quickly. "That's just her cuteness.
Nor that you insulted my father publicly 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 too far by much. I insist that you remove your mask and tell me your name." "And if I refuse?" said the little man coolly.
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 that which yawns between attempted and successful wife-murder, Mr. Shaynon!"
"What the devil !" he cried into the face of the aggressor; and in the act of speaking, recognised the man as him with whom Bayard Shaynon had been conversing in the lobby: that putative parvenu hard-faced, cold-eyed, middle-aged, fine-trained, awkward in evening dress.... The hand whose grasp he had broken shifted to his shoulder, closing fingers like steel hooks upon it.
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.
Immediately, and considerably to his surprise, the doors were thrown open and on the threshold a butler showed 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 betray surprise did he feel any at this ill-timed call.
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