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Shaynon recollected himself with visible effort. "The man 's crazy," he muttered sickishly, rising. "I don't know what he 's talking about. Arrest him take him to the station-house why don't you?" "Who'll make the charge?" asked the detective, eyeing Shaynon without favour. "Not Bayard Shaynon!" P. Sybarite asseverated. "It's not my brooch," Shaynon asserted defensively.
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 my endurance. Who's this creature you're with?" "Is your memory so short?" P. Sybarite asked quietly. "Have you forgotten the microbe? the little guy who puts the point in disappointment?" "I've forgotten nothing, you animal!
Perhaps hardly likely: the hypothesis was none the less quite plausible; a thing had happened, within P. Sybarite's knowledge of Brian Shaynon.... Even if George's romance were true only in part, these were wretched circumstances for a girl of gentle birth and rearing to adopt. It was really a shocking boarding-house.
And there the first thing I noticed when I went in was old Shaynon, sitting at the same table you took, later waiting. Imagine my surprise I'd left him at the Bizarre not thirty minutes before!" "I'm imagining it, Peter. Get ahead." "I hailed him, but he wouldn't recognise me simply glared. Presently Red November came in and they went upstairs together.
And when he tried to insist on my drinking 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 heard November promise Shaynon, at the door, that you wouldn't remember much when you came to.
Suddenly it became plain to him that if in truth it was with her as he feared, at least two persons knew what had become of the girl two persons aside from himself and her hired kidnappers: Brian Shaynon and Bayard, his son. From them alone authoritative information might be extracted, by ruse or wile or downright intimidation, eked out with effrontery, a stout heart, and perhaps a little luck.
Shaynon would tell me nothing treated me as though I were still a child. Moreover I had grown deeply interested in the way our girls were treated; I wanted to know about them to be sure they were given a fair chance earned enough to live decently and other things about their lives you can imagine...." "I think I understand," said P. Sybarite gravely.
The rooms, in short, had been most thoroughly if hastily ransacked in search, P. Sybarite didn't for an instant doubt, of evidence as to the relations between Shaynon and Mrs. Inche calculated to prove incriminating at an inquest; though the little man entertained even less doubt that lust for loot had likewise been a potent motive influencing November.
"Me, I have nossing whatever to do with the matter," he protested. "To me it would seem Mrs. 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 him severely. "It isn't pretty manners."
Forgive my ill-timed levity: I didn't mean it meanly, boy," P. Sybarite protested. "It's worse than you think," Peter complained. "I can stand her not caring 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?"
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