code of medical ethics, you
know--complete confidence inspired in patient by utter frankness on
doctor's part--and all that!...

"'An insignificant puncture,'" he mimicked: "'you'll be right as rain
in a week--unless the wound decides to gangrene--it's apt to, all on
its own, 'spite of anything we can do--in which case we'll have to
amputate your body to prevent infection spreading to your head.'...

"Well?" he wound up almost gaily. "What luck?"

"The worst. Where are my rags? I've got to change and run. Also--while
you're up"--Peter had just dropped into a chair--"you might be good
enough to mix me a Scotch and soda."

Whereupon, while changing his clothes, and between breaths and gulps
of whiskey-and-water, P. Sybarite delivered himself of an abbreviated
summary of what had happened at the ball and after.

"But why," he wound up peevishly--"_why_ didn't you tell me Bayard
Shaynon lived in the flat below you?"

"Didn't occur to me; and if you ask me, I don't see why it should
interest you now."

"Because," said P. Sybarite quietly, "I'm going down there and break
in as soon as I'm dressed fit to go to jail."

"In the sacred name of Insanity--!"

"If he's out, I'll steal that telegram and find out whether it has any
bearing on the case. If it hasn't, I'll sift every inch of the room
for a suspicion of a leading clue."

"But if he's in--?"

"I'll take my chances," said P. Sybarite with grim brevity.

"Unarmed?"

"Not if I know the nature of the brute." He stood up, fully dressed
but for his shoes. "Now--my gun, please."

"Top drawer of the buffet there. How are you going? Fire escape?"

"Where is it?" P. Sybarite asked as he possessed himself of his
weapon.

"Half a minute." Peter Kenny held out his hand. "Let's have a look at
that gun--will you?"

"What for?"

"One of those newfangled automatic pistols--isn't it? I 've never seen
one before."

"But--Great Scott!--you've had this here--"

"I know, but I didn't pay much attention--thinking of other things--"

"But you're delaying me--"

"Mean to," said Peter Kenny purposefully; and without giving P.
Sybarite the least hint of his intention, suddenly imprisoned his
wrist, grabbed the weapon by the barrel, and took it to himself--with
the greater ease since the other neither understood nor attempted
resistance.

"What in blazes--?" he enquired, puzzled, watching Peter turn the
weapon over curiously in his hands. "I should think--"

"There!