rilliants 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.