“Bromides are grand for the nerves,” he observed cuttingly, “but you’re too young to need ’em—­and I want none now....  Listen to me.”

Briefly he told his story.

“Well, but the telegram?” Peter insisted.  “Does it help—­tell you anything?  It’s maddening—­to think Marian may be in the power of that bloodthirsty—!”

“There you go again!” P. Sybarite complained—­“and not two minutes ago I warned you about that habit.  Wait:  I’ve had time only to run an eye through this:  let me get the sense of it.”

Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message in silence: 

  BAYARD SHAYNON
  Monastery Apts., W. 43rd, N.Y.C.

  Your wire received all preparations made send patient in charge as
  indicated at convenience legal formalities can wait as you suggest.

  HAYNES PRIVATE SANATORIUM.

Blankly Peter Kenny looked at his cousin; with eyes in which deepening understanding mingled with anger as deep, and with profound misgivings as well, P. Sybarite returned his stare.

“It’s as plain as the face on you, Peter Kenny.  Why, all along I’ve had an indefinite notion that something of the sort was what they were brewing!  Don’t you see—­’private sanatorium’?  What more proof do you need of a plot to railroad Marian to a private institution for the insane?  ’Legal formalities can wait as you suggest’—­of course!  They hadn’t had time to cook up the necessary papers, to suborn medical certificates and purchase a commitment paper of some corrupt judge.  But what of that?” P. Sybarite demanded, slapping the message furiously.  “She was in the way—­at large—­liable at any time to do something that would put her money forever out of their reach.  Therefore she must be put away at once, pending ‘legal formalities’ to ensure her permanent incarceration!”

“The dogs!” Peter Kenny growled.

“But consider how they’ve been served out—­thunderbolts—­justice from the very skies!  All except one, and,” said P. Sybarite solemnly, “God do so to me and more also if he’s alive or outside bars before this sun sets!”

“Who?”

“November!”

“What can you do to him?”

“To begin with, beat him to that damned asylum.  Fetch me the suburban telephone directory.”

“Telephone directory?”

“Yes!” P. Sybarite raved.  “What else?  Where is it?  And where are your wits?”

“Why, here—­”

Turning, Peter took the designated volume from its hook beneath the wall instrument at the very elbow of P. Sybarite.

“I thought,” he commented mildly, “you had all your wits about you and could see it.”

“Don’t be impudent,” grumbled P. Sybarite, rapidly thumbing the pages.  “Westchester,” he muttered, adding:  “Oscahana—­H—­Ha—­H-a-d—­”

“Are you dotty?”

“Look at that telegram.  It’s dated from Oscahana:  that’s somewhere in Westchester, if I’m not mistaken.  Yes; here we are:  H-a-y—­Haynes Private Sanatorium—­number, Oscahana one-nine.  You call ’em.”