need now is a match: I acknowledge the habit."

The match supplied, he smoked in silence.

Four minutes passed, by the clock: no sign of the manager, Shaynon, or
Mrs. Strone.

"Story?" the detective suggested at length.

"Plant," retorted P. Sybarite as tersely.

"You mean he salted you?"

"In the elevator, of course."

"It come to me, that was the way of it when he sprung that bunk stuff
about you coarsely loading said loot into your coat-tail," admitted
the detective. "That didn't sound sensible, even if you did have a
skirt to fuss into a cab. The ordinary vest-pocket of commerce
would've kept it just as close, besides being more natural--easy to
get at. Then the guy was too careful to tip me off not to pinch you
until the lady had went--didn't want her name dragged into it.... A
fellow in my job's gotta have a lot of imagination," he concluded
complacently. "That's why I'm letting you get away with it in this
unprofessional manner."

"More human than in line with the best literary precedent, eh?"

"That's me. I seen he was sore when the dame turned him down, too, and
started right off wondering if maybe it wasn't a jealousy plant. I
seen this sorta thing happen before. Not that I blame him for feeling
cut up: that was one swell piece of goods you bundled into numba
two-thirty."

P. Sybarite's cigar dropped unheeded from his lips.

"_What!_" he cried.

The detective started.

"Wasn't that the numba of the lady's cab--two-thirty?"

"Good God!" ejaculated P. Sybarite, jumping up.

"What's hit you?"

"I'm going!" the little man announced fiercely.

"Your time allowance ain't expired by several minutes--"

"To hell with my time allowance! Try to keep me, if you like!"

P. Sybarite strode excitedly to the door and jerked it open. The
detective followed him, puffing philosophically.

There was no one in sight in the hall.

"Looks like you got a fine show for a clean getaway," he observed
cheerfully between his teeth. "Your friend's beaten it, the boss has
ducked the responsibility, and you got _me_ scared to death.
Besides--damn 'f I'm going to be the goat that saddles this hash-hut
with a suit for damages."

His concluding words were addressed to the horizontal folds of the
inverness that streamed from the shoulders of P. Sybarite as he bolted
unhindered through the Fifth Avenue doorway.

XIX

NEMESIS

"Dolt!... Blockhead!... Imbecile!... Idiot!... Numskull!... Ass!...
Simpleton