“One of us,” George protested with profound conviction, “is plumb loony in the head!”

“It’s me,” said P. Sybarite humbly:  “I admit it....  And the worst of it is—­I like it!  So would you if you’d been through a Day of Days.”

George let that pass; for the moment he was otherwise engaged in vain speculation as to the appearance of a phenomenon rather rare in the calendar of that West Thirty-eighth Street boarding-house.

A Western Union boy, weary with the weariness of not less than forty summers, was shuffling in at the gate.

“Sa-ay!” he called with the asperity of ingrained ennui—­“either of youse guys know a guy named Perceval Sybarite ’t lives here?”

Silently P. Sybarite held out his hand, took the greasy little book in its black oil-cloth binding, scrawled his signature in the proper blank, and received the message in its sealed yellow envelope.

“Wait,” he commanded calmly, eyeing Western Union with suspicion.

“W’at’s eatin’ you?  Is they an answer?”

“They ain’t no answer,” P. Sybarite admitted.

“Well, whatcha want?  I got no time to stick round here kiddin’.”

“One moment of your valuable time.  I believe you delivered a message at the Monastery Apartments in Forty-third Street this morning.”

“Well, an’ what ’f I did?”

“Only this.”

P. Sybarite extracted an immense roll of bills from his pocket; transferred it to his other hand; delved deeper; eventually produced a single twenty-dollar gold-piece.

“Take this,” he said, tossing it to the boy with princely nonchalance.  “It’s the last of a lot, but—­it’s yours.”

“What for?” Western Union demanded in amaze; while, as for George Bross, he developed plain symptoms of apoplexy.

“You’ll never know,” said P. Sybarite.  “Now run along before I come to.”

In the shadow of this threat, Western Union fled precipitately....

P. Sybarite rose; yawned; smiled benignantly upon George Bross.

“I’m off to bed—­was only waiting for this message,” he announced; “but before I go—­tell me; how much money does Violet think you ought to be earning before you’re eligible for the Matrimonial Stakes?”

“She said somethin’ oncet about fifty per,” George remembered gloomily.

“It’s yours—­doubled,” P. Sybarite told him.  “To-morrow you will resign from the employ of Whigham & Wimper and go to Blessington’s to enter their shipping department at a hundred a week; and if you don’t earn it, may God have mercy on your wretched soul!”

George got up very suddenly.

“I’ll go send for the doctor,” he announced.

“One moment more.”  P. Sybarite dropped a detaining hand upon his arm.  “You and Violet are invited to dinner to-night—­at the Hotel Plaza.  Don’t be alarmed; you needn’t dress; we’ll dine privately in Marian’s apartment.”

“Marian!”