“Forty-seventh, near Sixth Avenue,” he reported finally.

“Good:  we’ll be home in five minutes.”

“Think you can hold out that long?”

“Sure—­got to; if I keel over before we reach my digs ... chances are it’ll get you into trouble ... besides, I want to fight shy of the papers ... no good airing this scandal ...”

“None whatever,” affirmed P. Sybarite heartily.  “But—­how did you get into it?”

“Just by way of being a natural-born ass.”

“Oh, well!  If it comes to that, I admit it’s none of my business—­”

“The deuce it isn’t!  After all you’ve done for me!  Good Lord, man, where would I be...!”

“Sleeping the sleep of the doped in some filthy corner of Dutch House, most likely.”

“And you saved me from that!”

“And got this hole drilled through you instead.”

“Got me away; I’d’ve collected the lead anyhow—­wasn’t meaning to stay without a fight.”

“Then you weren’t as drunk as you seemed?”

“Didn’t you catch me making a move the minute you created a diversion?  Of course, I’d no idea you were friendly—­”

“Look here,” P. Sybarite interrupted sharply:  “doesn’t it hurt you to talk?”

“No—­helps me forget this ache.”

“All right, then—­tell me how this came about.  What has Red November got on you, to make him so anxious—?”

“Nothing, as far as I know; unless it was Brian Shaynon’s doing—­”

“A-ah!”

“You know that old blighter?”

“Slightly—­very slightly.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.”

The accent of P. Sybarite’s laugh rendered the disclaimer conclusive.

“Glad to hear that,” said the boy gravely:  “I’d despise to be beholden to any friend of his ...”

“Well....  But what’s the trouble between you and old man Shaynon?”

“Search me—­unless he thought I was spying on him.  I say!” the boy exclaimed excitedly—­“what business could he have had with Red November there, to-night?”

“That is a question,” P. Sybarite allowed.

“Something urgent, I’ll be bound!—­else he wouldn’t ever have dared show his bare map in that dump.”

“One would think so....”

“I’d like to figure this thing out.  Perhaps you can help.  To begin with—­I went to a party to-night.”

“I know,” said P. Sybarite, with a quiet chuckle:  “the Hadley-Owen masquerade.”

“How did you know?”

“Kismet! It had to be.”

“Are you by any chance—­mad?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.  Anyhow, I’m a bit mad I wasn’t invited.  Everybody I know or meet—­almost—­is either bidden to that party or knows somebody who is.  Forgive the interruption....  Anyway,” he added, “we’re here.”

The taxicab was drawing up before an apartment house entrance.

Hastily recovering his hoard of gold-pieces, P. Sybarite jumped out and presented one to the driver.