Softly P. Sybarite tiptoed down the stairs.

Disappointment, however, lay in ambush for him at his nefarious goal:  evidently Western Union had been punctilious about his duty; not even so much as the tip of a corner of yellow envelope peeped from under the door.

Reckless in exasperation, P. Sybarite first wasted time educing a series of short, sharp barks from the bell—­a peculiarly irritating noise, calculated (one would think) to rouse the dead—­then tried the door and, finding it fast, in the end knelt and bent an ear to the keyhole, listening....

Not a sound:  silence of the grave; the house deathly still.  He could hear his own heart drumming; but, from Shaynon’s flat, nothing....

Or—­was that the creak of a board beneath a stealthy footstep?

If so, it wasn’t repeated....

Again, could it be possible his ears did actually detect a sound of human respiration through the keyhole?  Was Bayard Shaynon just the other side of that inch-wide pressed-steel barrier, the fire-proof door, cowering in throes of some paralysing fright, afraid to answer the summons?...

If so, why?  What did he fear?  The police, perhaps?  And if so—­why?  What crime had become his so to unman him that he dared not open and put his fate to the test?...

Quickly there took shape in the imagination of the little Irishman a hideous vision of mortal Fear, wild-eyed, white-lipped, and all a-tremble, skulking in panic only a little beyond his reach:  a fancy that so worked upon his nerves that he himself seemed infected with its shuddering dread, and thought to feel the fine hairs a-crawl on his neck and scalp and his flesh a-creep.

When at length he rose and drew away it was with all stealth, as though he too moved in the shadow of awful terror bred of a nameless crime....

Once more at Peter Kenny’s door, his diffident fingers evoked from the bell but a single chirp—­a sound that would by no means have gained him admission had Peter not been sitting up in bed, reading to while away the ache of his wound.

But it was ordered so; Peter was quick to answer the door; and P. Sybarite, pulling himself together (now that he had audience critical of his demeanour) walked in with a very tolerable swagger—­with a careless, good-humoured nod for his host and a quick look round the room to make certain they were alone.

“Doctor been?”

“Oh—­an hour ago.”

“And—?”

“Says I’m all right if blood-poisoning doesn’t set in.”

Shutting the door, Peter grinned not altogether happily.  “That’s one of the most fetching features of the new code of medical ethics, you know—­complete confidence inspired in patient by utter frankness on doctor’s part—­and all that!...

“‘An insignificant puncture,’” he mimicked:  “’you’ll be right as rain in a week—­unless the wound decides to gangrene—­it’s apt to, all on its own, ’spite of anything we can do—­in which case we’ll have to amputate your body to prevent infection spreading to your head.’...