In short, Molly Lessing might very well be Marian Blessington, after all!

In which case the man with the twisted mouth was, more probably than not, none other than that same Bayard Shaynon whom the young lady was reported to have jilted so arbitrarily.

Turning the topper over in his hands, it occurred to P. Sybarite to wonder if he did not, in it, hold a valuable clue to this riddle of identity.  Promptly he took the hat indoors to find out, investigating it most thoroughly by the flickering, bluish glare of the lonely gas-jet that burned in the hallway.

It was a handsome and heavy hat of English manufacture, as witness the name of a Bond Street hatter in its crown; by the slight discolouration of its leather, had seen service without, however, depreciating in utility, needing only brushing and ironing to restore its pristine brilliance; carried neither name nor initials on its lining; and lacked every least hint as to its ownership—­or so it seemed until the prying fingers of P. Sybarite turned down the leather and permitted a visiting card concealed therein to flutter to the floor.

The hall rack was convenient; hanging up the hat, P. Sybarite picked up the card.  It displayed in conventional script the name, Bailey Penfield, with the address, 97 West 45th Street; one corner, moreover, bore a pencilled hieroglyphic which seemed to read:  “O.K.—­B.P.”

“Whatever,” P. Sybarite mused, “that may mean.”

He turned the card over and examined its unmarked and taciturn reverse.

Stealthy footsteps on the stairs distracted his studious attention from the card.  He looked up, blinking and frowning thoughtfully, to see George descending with the wash-pitcher wrapped in, but by no means disguised by, brown paper.  Once at the bottom of the stairs, this one expressed amazement in a whisper, to avoid rousing their landlady, who held, unreasonably, that it detracted from the tone of her establishment for gentlemen boarders to rush the growler....

“Hel-lo!  We thought you must’ve got lost in the shuffle.”

“Did you?” said P. Sybarite absently.

“Where’s Molly?”

“Miss Lessing?” P. Sybarite looked surprised.  “Isn’t she upstairs—­with Violet?”

“No!”

“That’s funny....”

“Why, when’d she leave you?”

“Oh, ten minutes ago, or so.”

“She must have stopped in her room for somethin’.”

“Perhaps.”

“But why didn’t you come on up?”

“Well, you see, I met a man outside I wanted to talk to for a moment.  So I left her at the door.”

“Well, Vi’s waitin’.  Run on up.  I won’t be five minutes.  And knock on Molly’s door and see what’s the matter.”

“All right,” returned P. Sybarite serenely.

His constructive mendacity light upon his conscience, he permitted George time enough to leave the house and gain Clancey’s, then quietly followed as far as the gate, from which point he cut across the southern sidewalk, turned west to Ninth Avenue, and there north to Forty-second Street, where he boarded a cross-town car.