“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.  He’s dead as Guy Fawkes, and no doctor livin’—­”

“Nevertheless, telephone—­if you don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Quite right, sir.  I’ll do so at once.”

Turning, the man waddled off, disappearing toward the back of the house.

Alone, with neither hesitation nor a single backward glance at the body of his ancient enemy, the little man swung about, walked quietly to the front door, and as quietly let himself out.

He was of no mind to be called as a witness at a possible inquest; and business of far greater import urged him, the real business of his life, this:  to discover the whereabouts of Marian Blessington with the least avoidable delay.

His first cast having failed, he must now try to draw the son; and, if possible, before the latter learned of his father’s death.

Not until about to re-enter the car did he remember he had neglected to secure Bayard’s address from the butler.  But he wouldn’t turn back; it could be ascertained elsewhere; Peter Kenny would either know it or know where to get it.

To Peter’s rooms he must of necessity return first of all; for it would not much longer prove possible to go up and down and to and fro upon Manhattan Island in a black silk dress-coat and flaming scarlet small-clothes; to change was imperative.

“The Monastery,” he directed, settling back into his seat.

It was now clear daylight:  a morning of bright promise breaking over a Town much livelier than it had been half an hour or so ago, with more citizens abroad, some striding briskly to the day’s work, some trudging wearily from the night’s.

Over all brooded still that effect of illusion:  this might have been, almost, a foreign city into whose streets he was adventuring for the first time, so changed and strange seemed everything in his eyes.

P. Sybarite himself felt old and worn and tired, and with a thoughtful finger rubbed an over-night growth of stubble upon his chin....

“Wait,” he told the driver, on alighting at the Monastery; “I’m keeping you.”

Money passed between them—­more than enough to render his wishes inviolable.

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.  The colloquy there was distinctly audible: 

“Mr. Bayard Shaynon?”

“’Leventh floor.  Hurry up—­don’t keep the elevator waitin’.”