ent 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.

The woman was there, not a foot distant, her countenance a mask of
suspicious determination.

"Go on!" she commanded in menacing accents.

He pulled the door open, flung out into the hallway, paused again at
the mouth of the back pit of the stairway.

Behind him the woman snapped a switch; an electric bulb glared out of
the darkness. And P. Sybarite, peering down, starte