Upon this thought he turned boldly up the steps, pressed the bell-button; laid hold of the door-knob, and entered into a vestibule as dark as his bewilderment and as empty as the palm of his hand; proving that the young gentleman of fashion had experienced no difficulty in penetrating farther into fastnesses of this singular establishment.  And reflecting that where one had gone, another might follow, P. Sybarite pulled the door to behind him.

Instantly the bare and narrow vestibule was flooded with the merciless glare of half a dozen electric bulbs; and at the same time he found himself sustaining the intent scrutiny of a pair of inhospitable dark eyes set in an impassive dark face—­this last abruptly disclosed in the frame of a small grille in one of the inner doors.

Though far too dumfounded for speech, he contrived to return the stare with aggressive interest, and to such effect that he presently wore through the patience of the other.

“Well?” he was gruffly asked.

“The Saints be praised!” returned P. Sybarite.  “I find myself so.  And yourself?” he added civilly:  not to be outdone, as the saying is.

“What do you want?”

Irritating discourtesy inhered in the speaker’s tone.  P. Sybarite stiffened his neck.

“To see Mr. Penfield,” he returned firmly—­“of course!”

“What Mr. Penfield?” asked the other, after a pause so transient that it was little more than distinguishable, but which to P. Sybarite indicated beyond question that at least one Mr. Penfield was known to his cautious interlocutor.

“Mr. Bailey Penfield,” he replied.  “Who else?”

During a pause slightly longer than the first, the hostile and suspicious eyes summed him up a second time.

“No such party here,” was the verdict.  The man drew back and made as if to shut the grille.

“Nonsense!” P. Sybarite insisted sharply.  “I have his card with this number—­got it from him only to-night.”

“Card?” The face returned to the grille.

P. Sybarite made no bones about displaying his alleged credential.

“I believe you’ll find that authentic,” he observed with asperity.

By way of answer, the grille closed with a snap; but his inclination to kick the door was nullified when, without further delay, it opened to admit him.  Nose in air, he strutted in, and the door clanged behind him.

“Gimme another slant at that card,” the guardian insisted.

Surrendering it with elaborate indifference, P. Sybarite treated himself to a comprehensive survey of the place.

He stood in the main hall of an old-fashioned residence.  To his right, a double doorway revealed a drawing-room luxuriously furnished but, as far as he could determine, quite untenanted.  On the left, a long staircase hugged the wall, with a glow of warm light at its head.  To the rear, the hall ended in a single doorway through which he could see a handsome mahogany buffet elaborately arranged with shimmering damask, silver, and crystal.