"Well?" mumbled the detective of Shaynon. "How aboutcha?"

"Wait," mumbled Shaynon, moving toward the door. "I'll fetch Mrs.
Strone."

"Don't go without saying good-bye," P. Sybarite admonished him
severely. "It isn't pretty manners."

The door slammed tempestuously, and the little man chuckled with an
affectation of ease to which he was entirely a stranger: ceaselessly
his mind was engaged with the problem of this trumped-up charge of
Shaynon's.

Was simple jealousy and resentment, a desire to "get even," the whole
explanation?

Or was there something of an uglier complexion at the bottom of the
affair?

His head buzzed with doubts and suspicions, and with misgivings on
Marian's behalf but indifferently mitigated by the reflection that, at
worst, the girl had escaped unhindered and alone in her private car.
By now she ought to be safe at the Plaza....

"He won't be back," P. Sybarite observed generally to detective and
manager; and sat him down serenely.

"You feel pretty sure about that?" the detective asked.

"Wait and see."

Bending forward, the little man examined the gilt clock on the
manager's desk. "Twenty minutes past four," he announced: "I give you
ten minutes to find some one to make a charge against me--Shaynon,
Mrs. What's-her-name, or either of yourselves, if you like the job. If
you fail to produce a complainant by half-past four precisely, out of
here I go--and I'm sorry for the man who tries to stop me."

The detective took a chair, crossed his legs, and produced a cigar
which he began to trim with tender care. The manager, anxiously pacing
the floor, after another moment or so paused at the door, fidgeted,
jerked it open, and with a muffled "Pardon!" disappeared--presumably
in search of Shaynon.

Striking a match, the detective puffed his cigar aglow. Over its tip
his small eyes twinkled at P. Sybarite.

"Maybe you're a gentleman crook, and maybe not," he returned with fine
impartiality. "But you're all there, son, with the tongue action. You
got me still goin' round in circles. Damn 'f I know yet what to
think."

"Well, if that's your trouble," P. Sybarite told him coolly, "this is
your cue to squat on your haunches, scratch your left ear with your
hind leg, and gaze up into my face with an intelligent expression in
your great brown eyes."

"I'll do better 'n that," chuckled the man. "Have a cigar."

"Thank you," said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering.
"All I