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Updated: June 21, 2025
"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.
But the careless sobriquet of Kenny's rankled in the old man's mind and bore a startling aftermath of fruit. Kenny was Irish and conversational. He had as usual talked too much, unaware that Adam, with fiendish insight, was reading steadily between the lines, ready to pounce. "Paul Pry!" repeated the old man at intervals. "Paul Pry!
The road that but a moment before had made a feint of stopping for good and all at a dark and hilly wall of cedars, swept around a rocky curve and revealed the glint of the river. After that by all the dictates of convenience it should have curved again and continued its course to Kenny's destination, pleasantly parallel with the bends of the river.
"Too early for saimin," he said. "Too bad. There's a great place Hamura's biz people from Honolulu have been known to fly over for lunch to cure their hangovers." He parked by Kenny's. "O.K., this won't take long." They ordered breakfast.
But it's pretty hard on Brian." It was the thing, as Garry knew, that taxed Brian's patience to the utmost, plunged him into grotesque dilemmas and kept him keyed to an abnormal alertness of memory. Always his sense of loyalty revolted at the notion of denying any tale that Kenny told. Now Kenny's hurt stare left Brian unrepentant. He lost his temper utterly.
For some time she had been standing at the fence, her elbows on the top rail, gazing pensively at the light in Kenny's window. A clump of honeysuckle bushes was between her and the unsuspecting servants. At first she had paid little or no attention to the gabble of the darkies, her thoughts being centred on her own serious affairs.
Alone in the studio again, he flung up a window, his mind pushing ahead to eleven o'clock. It seemed to him then that he could not possibly wait and go on fighting for his self-control. A gust of sleet and hail swept in with a pattering sound upon the floor. Its cold, stinging contact with his face refreshed him. Kenny's brain cleared. He gulped and gasped. Garry's car! He would not wait.
Either he must stay or go back with the haunting conviction that this hungry-eyed old fiend who could strum with diabolic skill upon the sensitive strings of his very soul, would propel himself in his wheel-chair to the stairway, there to sit like a ghoul at the top. Rain beat in Kenny's ears like a trumpet of doom. He felt sick and dizzy.
"Just give him his haid, sah," called the negro as he climbed aboard, "and he'll find de road outside fo' yoh." Mule and rider disappeared with a sort of plunge. Kenny's spirits soared. Substance and speed here enough for any man. He remembered in the first moment of his uplift that Cuchullin, foremost champion of the Red Branch, had had a magic steed that rose from a lake.
A dull-eyed hallboy recognised and let him in, sullenly passing him on to the elevator; but as that last was on the point of taking flight to Peter Kenny's door, it hesitated; and the operator, with his hand on the half-closed gate, shot it open again instead of shut. A Western Union messenger-boy, not over forty years tired, was being admitted at the street door.
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