"

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."

He returned the trinket indifferently.

"Nonsense!" Shaynon interposed incisively. "Mrs. Strone's not that
kind."

"Shut up!" snapped P. Sybarite. "What do you know about it? You've
lied yourself out of court already."

A transitory expression of bewilderment clouded Shaynon's eyes.

"I'm no judge," the detective announced doubtfully.

"It makes no difference," Shaynon insisted. "Theft's theft!"

"It makes a deal of difference whether it's grand or petit larceny,"
P. Sybarite flashed--"a difference almost as wide and deep as that
which yawns between attempted and successful wife-murder, Mr.
Shaynon!"

His jaw dropped and a look of stupefying terror stamped itself upon
Shaynon's face.

It was the turn of P. Sybarite to laugh.

"Well?" he demanded cuttingly. "Are you ready to come to the
station-house and make a charge against me? I'll go peaceful as a lamb
with the kind cop, if by so doing I can take you with me. But if I do,
believe me, you'll never get out without a bondsman."

Shaynon recollected himself with visible effort.

"The man 's crazy," he muttered sickishly, rising. "I don't know what
he 's talking about. Arrest him--take him to the station-house--why
don't you?"

"Who'll make the charge?" asked the detective, eyeing Shaynon without
favour.

"Not Bayard Shaynon!" P. Sybarite asseverated.

"It's not my brooch," Shaynon asserted defensively.

"You saw him take it," the detective persisted.

"No--I didn't; I suspected him. It's you who found the brooch on him,
and it's your duty to make the charge."

"You're one grand little lightning-change-of-heart-artist--gotta slip
it to you for that," the detective observed truculently. "Now, lis'n:
I don't make no charge--"

"Any employee of the establishment will do as well, for _my_ purpose,"
P. Sybarite cut in. "Come, Mr. Manager! How about you? Mr. Shaynon
declines; your detective has no stomach for the job. Suppose you take
on the dirty work--kind permission of Bayard Shaynon, Esquire. I don't
care, so long as I get my grounds for suit against the Bizarre."

The manager spread out expostulatory palms. "Me, I have nossing
whatever to do with the matter," he protested. "To me it would seem
Mrs. Strone should make the charge."