Transfixed, he stared down, and gulped with horror, shaken by a sensation little short of nausea, as he recognised in the object—­a bar of yellow metal studded with winking brilliants of considerable size—­the brooch described by Shaynon.

With a noncommittal grunt, the detective stooped and retrieved this damning bit of evidence, while the manager moved quickly to his side, to inspect the find.  And P. Sybarite looked up with blank eyes in a pallid, wizened face in time to see Shaynon bare his teeth—­his lips curling back in a manner peculiarly wolfish and irritating—­and snarl a mirthless laugh.

It was something inopportune; the man could have done no better than keep his peace; left to himself P. Sybarite would in all probability have floundered and blustered and committed himself inextricably in a multitude of hasty and ill-considered protestations.

But that laugh was as good as a douche of cold water in his face.  He came abruptly to his senses; saw clearly how this thing had come to pass:  the temptation of the loose brooch to Shaynon’s fingers itching for revenge, while they stood so near together in the elevator, the opportunity grasped with the avidity of low cunning, the brooch transferred, under cover of the crush, to the coat-tail pocket.

Mute in this limpid comprehension of the circumstances, he sobered thoroughly from sickening consternation; remained in his heart a foul sediment of deadly hatred for Shaynon; to whom he nodded with a significance that wiped the grimace from the man’s face as with a sponge.  Something clearly akin to fear informed Shaynon’s eyes.  He sat forward with an uneasy glance at the door.

And then P. Sybarite smiled sunnily in the face of the detective.

“Caught with the goods on, eh?” he chirped.

“Well,” growled the man, dashed.  “Now, what do you think?”

“I’m every bit as much surprised as you are,” P. Sybarite confessed.  “Come now—­be fair to me—­own up:  you didn’t expect to see that—­did you?”

The detective hesitated.  “Well,” he grudged, “you did have me goin’ for a minute—­you were so damn’ cock-sure—­and it certainly is pretty slick work for an amateur.”

“You think I’m an amateur—­eh?”

“I guess I know every map in the Rogues’ Gallery as well’s the palm of my hand!”

“And mine is not among them?” P. Sybarite insisted triumphantly.

The detective grunted disdain of this inconclusive argument:  “You all’ve got to begin.  It’ll be there to-morrow, all right.”

“It looks bad, eh—­not?” the manager questioned, his predacious eyes fixed greedily upon the trinket.

“You think so?” P. Sybarite purposefully misinterpreted.  “Let me see.”

Before the detective could withdraw, P. Sybarite caught the brooch from his fingers.

“Bad?” he mused aloud, examining it closely.  “Phony?  Perhaps it is.  Looks like Article de Paris to me.  See what you think.”