Or was there something of an uglier complexion at the bottom of the affair?

His head buzzed with doubts and suspicions, and with misgivings on Marian’s behalf but indifferently mitigated by the reflection that, at worst, the girl had escaped unhindered and alone in her private car.  By now she ought to be safe at the Plaza....

“He won’t be back,” P. Sybarite observed generally to detective and manager; and sat him down serenely.

“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.  If you fail to produce a complainant by half-past four precisely, out of here I go—­and I’m sorry for the man who tries to stop me.”

The detective took a chair, crossed his legs, and produced a cigar which he began to trim with tender care.  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.  “But you’re all there, son, with the tongue action.  You got me still goin’ round in circles.  Damn ’f I know yet what to think.”

“Well, if that’s your trouble,” P. Sybarite told him coolly, “this is your cue to squat on your haunches, scratch your left ear with your hind leg, and gaze up into my face with an intelligent expression in your great brown eyes.”

“I’ll do better ’n that,” chuckled the man.  “Have a cigar.”

“Thank you,” said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering.  “All I need now is a match:  I acknowledge the habit.”

The match supplied, he smoked in silence.

Four minutes passed, by the clock:  no sign of the manager, Shaynon, or Mrs. Strone.

“Story?” the detective suggested at length.

“Plant,” retorted P. Sybarite as tersely.

“You mean he salted you?”

“In the elevator, of course.”

“It come to me, that was the way of it when he sprung that bunk stuff about you coarsely loading said loot into your coat-tail,” admitted the detective.  “That didn’t sound sensible, even if you did have a skirt to fuss into a cab.  The ordinary vest-pocket of commerce would’ve kept it just as close, besides being more natural—­easy to get at.  Then the guy was too careful to tip me off not to pinch you until the lady had went—­didn’t want her name dragged into it....  A fellow in my job’s gotta have a lot of imagination,” he concluded complacently.  “That’s why I’m letting you get away with it in this unprofessional manner.”