_What!_"

"He has it right--Nemesis," P. Sybarite replied incisively. "And you
may as well see me now, whether you want to or not. Sooner or later
you'll have to!"

There was a sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the upper landing,
and Brian Shaynon showed himself at the head of the stairs; now
without his furred great-coat, but still in the evening dress of
elderly Respectability--Respectability sadly rumpled and maltreated,
the white shield of his bosom no longer lustrous and immaculate, his
tie twisted wildly beneath one ear, his collar unbuttoned, as though
wrenched from its fastenings in a moment of fury. These things apart,
he had within the hour aged ten years in the flesh: gone the proud
flush of his bewhiskered gills, in its place leaden pallor; and gone
the quick, choleric fire from eyes now smouldering, dull and all but
lifeless....

He stood peering down, with an obvious lack of recognition that hinted
at failing sight.

"I don't seem to know you," he said slowly, with a weary shake of his
head; "and it's most inopportune--the hour. I fear you must excuse
me."

"That can't be," P. Sybarite returned. "I've business with
you--important. Perhaps you didn't catch the name I gave your
butler--Nemesis."

"Nemesis?" Shaynon repeated vacantly. He staggered and descended a
step before a groping hand checked him on the baluster-rail. "Nemesis!
Is this an untimely joke of some sort, sir?"

His accents quavered querulously; and P. Sybarite with a flash of
scorn put his unnatural condition down to drink.

"Far from it," he retorted ruthlessly. "The cat's out, my friend--your
bag lean and flapping emptiness! What," he demanded sternly--"what
have you done with Marian Blessington?"

"Mar--Marian?" the old voice iterated. "Why, she"--the man pulled
himself together with a determined effort--"she's in her room, of
course. Where should she be?"

"Is that true?" P. Sybarite demanded of the butler in a manner so
peremptory that the truth slipped out before the fellow realised it.

"Miss Marian 'asn't returned as yet from the ball," he whispered.
"'E--'e's not quite 'imself, sir. 'E's 'ad a bit of a shock, as one
might s'y. I'd go easy on 'im, if you'll take a word from me."

But P. Sybarite traversed his advice without an instant's
consideration.

"Brian Shaynon," he called, "you lie! The police have caught Red
November; they'll worm the truth out of him within twenty minutes, if
I don't get it from you now