out delay.

"Well?" he asked, when P. Sybarite--with a gesture enforcing temporary
silence--had himself shut the door without making a sound. "Good Lord,
man! You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

On the verge of agitated speech P. Sybarite checked to shake an
aggrieved head.

"Bromides are grand for the nerves," he observed cuttingly, "but
you're too young to need 'em--and I want none now.... Listen to me."

Briefly he told his story.

"Well, but the telegram?" Peter insisted. "Does it help--tell you
anything? It's maddening--to think Marian may be in the power of that
bloodthirsty--!"

"There you go again!" P. Sybarite complained--"and not two minutes ago
I warned you about that habit. Wait: I've had time only to run an eye
through this: let me get the sense of it."

Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message in
silence:

BAYARD SHAYNON
Monastery Apts., W. 43rd, N.Y.C.

Your wire received all preparations made send patient in charge as
indicated at convenience legal formalities can wait as you suggest.

HAYNES PRIVATE SANATORIUM.

Blankly Peter Kenny looked at his cousin; with eyes in which deepening
understanding mingled with anger as deep, and with profound misgivings
as well, P. Sybarite returned his stare.

"It's as plain as the face on you, Peter Kenny. Why, all along I've
had an indefinite notion that something of the sort was what they were
brewing! Don't you see--'private sanatorium'? What more proof do you
need of a plot to railroad Marian to a private institution for the
insane? 'Legal formalities can wait as you suggest'--of course! They
hadn't had time to cook up the necessary papers, to suborn medical
certificates and purchase a commitment paper of some corrupt judge.
But what of that?" P. Sybarite demanded, slapping the message
furiously. "She was in the way--at large--liable at any time to do
something that would put her money forever out of their reach.
Therefore she must be put away at once, pending 'legal formalities' to
ensure her permanent incarceration!"

"The dogs!" Peter Kenny growled.

"But consider how they've been served out--thunderbolts--justice from
the very skies! All except one, and," said P. Sybarite solemnly, "God
do so to me and more also if he's alive or outside bars before this
sun sets!"

"Who?"

"November!"

"What can you do to him?"

"To begin with, beat him to that damned asylum. Fetch me the suburban
telephone directory."