“Can’t change that,” said the latter, staring.  “Besides, this was a charge call.”

“I know,” said P. Sybarite apologetically; “but this is for you.”

“Good God!” cried the chauffeur.

“And yet,” mused P. Sybarite, “they’d have you believe all taxicab chauffeurs mercenary!”

Recklessly he forced the money into the man’s not altogether inhospitable palm.

“For being a good little tight-mouth,” he explained gravely.

“Forever and ever, amen!” protested the latter fervently.  “And thank you!”

“If you’re satisfied, we’re quits,” returned P. Sybarite, offering a hand to the boy.

“I can manage,” protested this last, descending without assistance.  “And it’s better so,” he explained as they crossed to the door; “I don’t want the hallboys here to suspect—­and I can hold up a few minutes longer, never fear.”

“Business of taking off my hat to you,” said P. Sybarite in unfeigned admiration; “for pure grit, you’re a young wonder.”

A liveried hallboy opened the door.  A second waited in the elevator.  Promptly ascending, they were set down at one of the upper floors.

Throughout the boy carried himself with never a quiver, his countenance composed and betraying what pain he suffered only to eyes keen to discern its trace of pallor.  Now as he left the elevator and fitted a key to the lock of his private front door, he addressed the attendant, over his shoulder, in a manner admirably casual: 

“By the way, Jimmy—­”

“Sir?”

“Call up Dr. Higgins for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him I’ve an attack of indigestion and will be glad if he’ll turn out and see if he can’t fix me up for the night.”

“Very good, Mr. Kenny.”

The gate clanged and the cage dropped from sight as Mr. Kenny opened the door and stood aside to let P. Sybarite precede him.

“Rot!” objected the little man forcibly.  “Go in and turn up the lights.  Punctilio from a man in your condition—!”

The boy nodded wearily, passed in, and switched up the lights in a comfortably furnished sitting-room.

“As a matter of fact,” he said thoughtfully, when P. Sybarite had followed him in and shut the door—­“I’m wondering how much of a bluff I may be, after all.”

“Meaning—?”

“By all literary precedent I ought to faint now, after my magnificent exhibition of superhuman endurance.  But I’m not going to.”

“That’s rather sporting of you,” P. Sybarite grinned.

“Not at all; I just don’t want to—­don’t feel like it.  That sick feeling is gone—­nothing but a steady agony like a hot iron through my shoulder—­something any man with teeth to grit could stand.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.  I don’t pretend to be any sort of a dab at repairs on punctured humanity, but I read enough popular fiction myself to know that the only proper thing to do is to ruin that handsome coat of yours by cutting it off your back.  We can anticipate the doctor to that extent, at least.”