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"It's my impressionable nature makes all my troubles," observed P. Sybarite disconsolately. "However..." Shrugging into the coat Mrs. Inche held for him, he cocked the felt hat jauntily on the side of his head. "Always," he proclaimed with gesture hand on heart "always the ladies' slave!"
"Any sober man who stays away from it is almost perfectly safe, I believe." "I'll back you to take care of yourself," said the lady. "Ask for Red November.... You know who he is?" "The gangster? Yes." "If he isn't in, wait for him if you wait till daylight " "Important as all that, eh?" "It's life or death to me," said Mrs. Inche serenely.
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.
Strange to say, my disguise didn't take, and I had to leave by way of the back fences in order to continue uninterrupted enjoyment of the inalienable rights of every American citizen life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness." "I don't know why I believe you," said Mrs. Inche reflectively, when he paused for breath. "Perhaps it's your spendthrift way with language. Do you talk like that when sober?"
"So that was the way of it!" P. Sybarite commented dully. So Mrs. Inche had sought the father to revenge herself upon the son; and with this outcome Bayard unharmed, his father dead!... "That was hexactly 'ow it 'appened, sir," affirmed the butler, rubbing his fat old hands. "You 're wasting time. Go telephone the doctor," said P. Sybarite suddenly. "Right you are, sir. But there's no real 'urry.
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