his car, thoughts
profoundly disturbed and unsettled, for so long that the operator grew
restless.

"Where next, sir?" he asked.

"Wait," said P. Sybarite in a manner of abstraction that did him no
injustice; and entering the car, mechanically shut the door and sat
down, permitting his gaze to range absently among the dusky distances
of Central Park; where through the netted, leafless branches, the
lamps that march the winding pathways glimmered like a hundred tiny
moons of gold lost in some vast purple well....

Should he appeal to the police? His solicitude for the girl forbade
him such recourse save as a last resort. Publicity must be avoided
until the time when, all else having failed, it alone held out some
little promise of assistance.

But--adrift and blind upon uncharted seas of uncertainty!--what to do?

Suddenly it became plain to him that if in truth it was with her as he
feared, at least two persons knew what had become of the girl--two
persons aside from himself and her hired kidnappers: Brian Shaynon and
Bayard, his son.

From them alone authoritative information might be extracted, by ruse
or wile or downright intimidation, eked out with effrontery, a stout
heart, and perhaps a little luck.

A baleful light informing his eyes, an ominous expression settling
about his mouth, he gave the operator the address of Shaynon's
town-house; and as the car slipped away from the hotel was sensible of
keen regret that he had left at Peter Kenny's, what time he changed
his clothing, the pistol given him by Mrs. Jefferson Inche, together
with the greater part of his fortuitous fortune--neither firearms nor
large amounts of money seeming polite additions to one's costume for a
dance....

In five minutes the car drew up in front of one of those few
old-fashioned, brownstone, English-basement residences which to-day
survive on Fifth Avenue below Fifty-ninth Street, elbowed, shouldered,
and frowned down upon by beetling hives of trade.

At all of its wide, old-style windows, ruffled shades of
straw-coloured silk were drawn. One sign alone held out any promise
that all within were not deep in slumber: the outer front doors were
not closed. Upon the frosted glass panels of the inner doors a dim
light cast a sickly yellow stain.

Laying hold of an obsolete bell-pull, P. Sybarite yanked it with a
spirit in tune with his temper. Immediately, and considerably to his
surprise, the doors were thrown open and on the th