“Ah—­ferget it!”

Whistling softly, the man with the yellow envelope ambled nonchalantly into the cage; fixed the operator with a truculent stare, and demanded the eleventh floor.

Now Peter Kenny’s rooms were on the twelfth....

The telegram with its sprawling endorsement in ink, “Mr. Bayard Shaynon, Monastery Apartments,” was for several moments within two feet of P. Sybarite’s nose.

It was, indeed, anything but easy to keep from pouncing upon that wretched messenger, ravishing him of the envelope (which he was now employing artfully to split a whistle into two equal portions—­and favour to none), and making off with it before the gate of the elevator could close.

Impossible to conjecture what intimate connection it might not have with the disappearance of Marian Blessington, what a flood of light it might not loose upon that dark intrigue!

Indeed, the speculations this circumstance set awhirl in P. Sybarite’s weary head were so many and absorbing that he forgot altogether to be surprised or gratified by the favour of Kismet which had caused their paths to cross at precisely that instant, as if solely that he might be informed of Bayard Shaynon’s abode....

“What door?” demanded Western Union as he left the cage at the eleventh floor.

“Right across the hall.”

The gate clanged, the cage mounted to the next floor, and P. Sybarite got out, requiring no direction:  for Peter Kenny’s door was immediately above Bayard Shaynon’s.

As he touched the bell-button for the benefit of the elevator man—­but for his own, failed to press it home—­the grumble of the door-bell below could be heard faintly through muffling fire-brick walls.

The grumble persisted long after the elevator had dropped back to the eleventh floor.

And presently the voice of Western Union was lifted in sour expostulation: 

“Sa-ay, whatcha s’pose ‘s th’ matta wid dis guy?  I’ been ringin’ haffanour!”

“That’s funny,” commented the elevator boy:  “he came in only about ten minutes ago.”

“Yuh wuddn’ think he cud pass away ’s quick ’s all that—­wuddja?”

“Ah, I dunno.  Mebbe he had a bun on when he come in.  Gen’ly has.  I didn’ notice.”

“Well, th’ way he must be poundin’ his ear now—­notta hear dis racket—­yud think he was trainin’ for a Rip van Winkle Marathon.”

Pause—­made audible by the pertinacious bell, grinding away like a dentist’s drill in a vacant tooth....

“Waitin’ here all day won’t get me nothin’.  Here, what’s th’ matta wid you signin’ for’t?”

“G’wan.  Sign it yourself ’nd stick unda the door, whydoncha?”

Second pause—­the bell boring on, but more faintheartedly, as if doubting whether it ever would reach that nerve.

Finally Western Union gave it up.

“A’right.  Guess I will.”

Clang of the gate:  whine of the descending car:  silence....