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In this room a small interior apartment, plainly furnished as a private office two people were waiting: a stout, smooth little man with a moustache of foreign extraction, who on better acquaintance proved to be the manager of the establishment; the other Bayard Shaynon, stationed with commendable caution on the far side of the room, the bulk of a broad, flat-topped mahogany desk fencing him off from the wrathful little captive.
Transfixed, he stared down, and gulped with horror, shaken by a sensation little short of nausea, as he recognised in the object a bar of yellow metal studded with winking brilliants of considerable size the brooch described by Shaynon. With a noncommittal grunt, the detective stooped and retrieved this damning bit of evidence, while the manager moved quickly to his side, to inspect the find.
"Because why, it was so utterly absurd! He's only a boy. Besides, I don'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 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.
"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 one might 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's consideration. "Brian Shaynon," he called, "you lie!
"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 mind the delay if you'll just trot along now, like a good dog " Unable longer to endure the lash of his mordacious wit, Shaynon turned and left them alone on the balcony. "I'm sorry," P. Sybarite told the girl in unfeigned contrition. "Please forgive me.
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 in addition to his disappointment. "Hep?" P. Sybarite iterated wonderingly.
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 not guilty?" P. Sybarite nodded curtly. "It's a lie, out of whole cloth," he declared. "You've only to search me.
"You feel pretty sure about that?" the detective asked. "Wait and see." Bending forward, the little man examined the gilt clock on the manager's desk. "Twenty minutes past four," he announced: "I give you ten 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.
I'm the little guy that put the speck in Respectability: I'm the noisy little skeleton in the cupboard of your conscience. Don't you know me now?" Shaynon bent to peer into the face exposed as P. Sybarite pushed back his hat; stared an instant, goggling; wheeled about, and flung heavily toward his taxicab. "The Bizarre!" wheezed he to the chauffeur; and dodging in, banged the door.
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