“But who am I,” pleaded the little man, “to gaze unblinded upon the sun?”

“That,” said the lady, smothering a giggle, “will be about all from you.  Get up—­or I’ll call in a sure-enough cop to search your title to that uniform.”

Hastily P. Sybarite withdrew his head and rose.  An embarrassed glance askance comforted him measurably:  the lady had thrown an exquisite negligee over her nightdress and had thrust her pretty feet into extravagantly pretty silken mules.

“Now,” said she tersely, “we’ll comb the premises for this burglar of yours:  and if we don’t find him”—­her lips tightened, her brows clouded ominously—­“I promise you an interesting time of it!”

“I’m vastly diverted as it is—­truly I am!” protested P. Sybarite, ruefully eyeing the lady’s pistol.  “But there ’s really no need to disturb yourself:  I’m quite competent to take care of any housebreaker—­”

“That,” she broke in, “is something you’ll have to show me....  Where’s your nightstick?”

“My—­er—­what?”

“Your nightstick.  What’ve you done with it?”

With consternation P. Sybarite investigated the vacant loop at his side.

“Must’ve dropped out while I was shinning over the back fence,” he surmised vaguely.  “However, I shan’t need it.  This”—­with a bright and confident smile displaying Penfield’s revolver—­“will do just as well—­better, in fact.”

“That?” she questioned.  “That’s not a Police Department gun.  Where’d you—­”

“Oh, yes, it is.  It’s the new pattern—­recently adopted.  They’ve just begun to issue ’em.  I got mine to-day—­”

The lady’s lips curled.  “Very well,” she concluded curtly.  “I don’t believe a word you say, but we’ll see.  Lead the way—­show me one solitary sign that a burglar has been here—­”

“Perhaps you’d prefer me to withdraw from the case?” the little man suggested with offended dignity.  “After all, I may be mistaken—­”

“You’d better not be.  I warn you, find me a burglar—­or”—­she added with unmistakable significance—­“I’ll find one myself.”

Interpreting the level challenge of her glance, P. Sybarite’s heart quaked, his soul curdled, his stomach for picaresque adventure failed him entirely:  anatomically, in short, he was hopelessly disqualified for his chosen role of favourite of Kismet, protagonist of this Day of Days.  Withal, there was no use offering resistance to the demands of this masterful woman; she was patently one to be humoured against a more auspicious turn of affairs.

He shrugged, gave in with a gesture.  Her imperative arm, uplifted, indicated an inner door.

“Find that burglar!”

“Swell chance I’ve got to get away with that proposition,” he grumbled.  “You’ve delayed me long enough to let any burglar get clean away!”

“And you hang back, giving him more time,” she cut in.  “Lead the way, now!”

Awed, P. Sybarite grasped his revolver and strode to the door with much dramatic manner, but paused with a hand on the knob to look over his shoulder.