"Telephone directory?"

"Yes!" P. Sybarite raved. "What else? Where is it? And where are your
wits?"

"Why, here--"

Turning, Peter took the designated volume from its hook beneath the
wall instrument at the very elbow of P. Sybarite.

"I thought," he commented mildly, "you had all _your_ wits about you
and could see it."

"Don't be impudent," grumbled P. Sybarite, rapidly thumbing the pages.
"Westchester," he muttered, adding: "Oscahana--H--Ha--H-a-d--"

"Are you dotty?"

"Look at that telegram. It's dated from Oscahana: that's somewhere in
Westchester, if I'm not mistaken. Yes; here we are: H-a-y--Haynes
Private Sanatorium--number, Oscahana one-nine. You call 'em."

"What shall I say?"

"Where the devil's that cartridge clip you took away from me?... Give
it here.... And I want my money."

"But," Peter protested in a daze, handing over the clip and watching
P. Sybarite rummage in the buffet drawer wherein he had banked his
fortune before setting out for the Bizarre--"but what do you want me
to--"

"Call up that sanatorium--find out if Marian has arrived. If she has,
threaten fire and sword and--all that sort of thing--if they don't
release her--hand her over to me on demand. If she hasn't, make 'em
understand I'll dynamite the place if they let November bring her
there and get away before I show up. Tell 'em to call in the police
and pinch November on sight. And then get a lawyer and send him up
there after me. And then--set the police after November--tell 'em you
heard the shot and went down the fire-escape to investigate.... I'm
off."

The door slammed on Peter as Bewilderment.

In the hall, savagely punching the elevator bell, P. Sybarite employed
the first part of an enforced wait to return the clip of cartridges to
its chamber in the butt of Mrs. Inche's pistol....

He punched the bell again....

He put his thumb upon the button and held it there....

From the bottom of the twelve-story well a faint, shrill
tintinnabulation echoed up to him. But that was all. The car itself
never stirred.

Infuriated, he left off that profitless employment and threw himself
down the stairs, descending in great bounds from landing to landing,
more like a tennis ball than a fairly intelligent specimen of mature
humanity in control of his own actions.

Expecting to be met by the ascending car before halfway to the bottom,
he came to the final flight not only breathless but in a towering
rage--contemplating