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Page 27
In short, Molly Lessing might very well be Marian Blessington, after
all!
In which case the man with the twisted mouth was, more probably than
not, none other than that same Bayard Shaynon whom the young lady was
reported to have jilted so arbitrarily.
Turning the topper over in his hands, it occurred to P. Sybarite to
wonder if he did not, in it, hold a valuable clue to this riddle of
identity. Promptly he took the hat indoors to find out, investigating
it most thoroughly by the flickering, bluish glare of the lonely
gas-jet that burned in the hallway.
It was a handsome and heavy hat of English manufacture, as witness the
name of a Bond Street hatter in its crown; by the slight
discolouration of its leather, had seen service without, however,
depreciating in utility, needing only brushing and ironing to restore
its pristine brilliance; carried neither name nor initials on its
lining; and lacked every least hint as to its ownership--or so it
seemed until the prying fingers of P. Sybarite turned down the leather
and permitted a visiting card concealed therein to flutter to the
floor.
The hall rack was convenient; hanging up the hat, P. Sybarite picked
up the card. It displayed in conventional script the name, _Bailey
Penfield_, with the address, _97 West 45th Street_; one corner,
moreover, bore a pencilled hieroglyphic which seemed to read:
"_O.K.--B.P._"
"Whatever," P. Sybarite mused, "_that_ may mean."
He turned the card over and examined its unmarked and taciturn
reverse.
Stealthy footsteps on the stairs distracted his studious attention
from the card. He looked up, blinking and frowning thoughtfully, to
see George descending with the wash-pitcher wrapped in, but by no
means disguised by, brown paper. Once at the bottom of the stairs,
this one expressed amazement in a whisper, to avoid rousing their
landlady, who held, unreasonably, that it detracted from the tone of
her establishment for gentlemen boarders to rush the growler....
"Hel-lo! We thought you must've got lost in the shuffle."
"Did you?" said P. Sybarite absently.
"Where's Molly?"
"Miss Lessing?" P. Sybarite looked surprised. "Isn't she
upstairs--with Violet?"
"No!"
"That's funny...."
"Why, when'd she leave you?"
"Oh, ten minutes ago, or so."
"She must have stopped in her room for somethin'."
"Perhaps."
"But why didn't you come on up?"
"Well, you see, I met a man outside I wanted to talk to for a moment.
So I left her at the door."
"Well, Vi's waitin'. Run on up. I won't be five minutes. And knock on
Molly's door and see what's the matter."
"All right," returned P. Sybarite serenely.
His constructive mendacity light upon his conscience, he permitted
George time enough to leave the house and gain Clancey's, then quietly
followed as far as the gate, from which point he cut across the
southern sidewalk, turned west to Ninth Avenue, and there north to
Forty-second Street, where he boarded a cross-town car.
This was quite the most insane freak in which he had indulged himself
these many years; and frankly admitting this much, he was rather
pleased than otherwise. He was bound to call on Mr. Bailey Penfield
and inform that gentleman where he might find his hat. Incidentally he
hoped to surprise something or other informing with regard to the
fortunes of Miss Lessing subsequent to her impulsive flight by
taxicab.
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