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Page 63
The accent of P. Sybarite's laugh rendered the disclaimer conclusive.
"Glad to hear that," said the boy gravely: "I'd despise to be beholden
to any friend of his ..."
"Well.... But what's the trouble between you and old man Shaynon?"
"Search me--unless he thought I was spying on him. I say!" the boy
exclaimed excitedly--"what business could he have had with Red
November there, to-night?"
"That _is_ a question," P. Sybarite allowed.
"Something urgent, I'll be bound!--else he wouldn't ever have dared
show his bare map in that dump."
"One would think so...."
"I'd like to figure this thing out. Perhaps you can help. To begin
with--I went to a party to-night."
"I know," said P. Sybarite, with a quiet chuckle: "the Hadley-Owen
masquerade."
"How did you know?"
"_Kismet!_ It had to be."
"Are you by any chance--mad?"
"I shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, I'm a bit mad I wasn't invited.
Everybody I know or meet--almost--is either bidden to that party or
knows somebody who is. Forgive the interruption.... Anyway," he added,
"we're here."
The taxicab was drawing up before an apartment house entrance.
Hastily recovering his hoard of gold-pieces, P. Sybarite jumped out
and presented one to the driver.
"Can't change that," said the latter, staring. "Besides, this was a
charge call."
"I know," said P. Sybarite apologetically; "but this is for you."
"Good God!" cried the chauffeur.
"And yet," mused P. Sybarite, "they'd have you believe all taxicab
chauffeurs mercenary!"
Recklessly he forced the money into the man's not altogether
inhospitable palm.
"For being a good little tight-mouth," he explained gravely.
"Forever and ever, amen!" protested the latter fervently. "And thank
_you_!"
"If you're satisfied, we're quits," returned P. Sybarite, offering a
hand to the boy.
"I can manage," protested this last, descending without assistance.
"And it's better so," he explained as they crossed to the door; "I
don't want the hallboys here to suspect--and I can hold up a few
minutes longer, never fear."
"Business of taking off my hat to you," said P. Sybarite in unfeigned
admiration; "for pure grit, you're a young wonder."
A liveried hallboy opened the door. A second waited in the elevator.
Promptly ascending, they were set down at one of the upper floors.
Throughout the boy carried himself with never a quiver, his
countenance composed and betraying what pain he suffered only to eyes
keen to discern its trace of pallor. Now as he left the elevator and
fitted a key to the lock of his private front door, he addressed the
attendant, over his shoulder, in a manner admirably casual:
"By the way, Jimmy--"
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