P. Sybarite nodded indifferently.  Profound thought enwrapped him like a mantle.

The butler lingered, the seals of professional reticence broken by this strange and awful accident.  But there was no real emotion in his temper—­only curiosity, self-interest, the impulse of loquacity.

“Stroke,” he observed thoughtfully, fingering his pendulous jowls and staring; “that’s w’at it was—­a stroke, like.  He’d ’ad a bit of shock before you come in, sir.”

“Yes?” murmured P. Sybarite absently.

“Yes, sir; a bit of a shock, owin’ to ’is ‘avin’ quarrelled with Mr. Bayard, sir.”

“Oh!” P. Sybarite roused.  “Quarrelled with his son, you say?”

“Yes, sir; somethin’ dreadful they was goin’ on.  ’E couldn’t ’ave got over it when you come.  Mr. Bayard ’adn’t been gone, not more than five minutes, sir.”

P. Sybarite interrogated with his eyes alone.

“It was a bit odd, come to think of it—­the ’ole affair, sir.  Must ’ave been over an hour ago, Mr. Shaynon ’ere, ’e come ’ome alone from the dance—­I see you must’ve been there yourself, sir, if I m’y mike so bold as to tike notice of your costume.  Very fawncy it is, too, sir—­becomes your style ’andsome, it does, sir.”

“Never mind me.  What happened when Mr. Shaynon came home?”

“W’y, ’e ’adn’t more than got inside the ’ouse, sir, w’en a lidy called on ’im—­a lidy as I ’ad never set eyes on before, sime as in your caise, sir; although I wouldn’t ’ave you think I mean she was of your clawss, sir.  ‘Ardly.  Properly speakin’, she wasn’t a lidy at all—­but a woman.  I mean to s’y, a bit flash.”

“I understand you.  Go on.”

“Well, sir, I didn’t ’ave a chance to over’ear w’at ’er business were, but it seemed to work on Mr. Brian there somethin’ ’orrid.  They was closeted in the library upstairs not more than twenty minutes, and then she went, and ’e rung for me and to bring ’im brandy and not delay about it.  ’E nearly emptied the decanter, too, before Mr. Bayard got ’ere.  And the minute they come together, it was ’ammer-and-tongs.  ’Ot and ’eavy they ’ad it for upwards of an hour, be’ind closed doors, sime as like with the lidy.  But w’en Mr. Bayard, ’e come to go, sir, the old gent follows ’im to the landin’—­just where ’e was when he spoke to you, sir, before ’e ’ad the stroke—­and ’e says to ’im, says ’e:  ‘Remember, I cawst you off.  Don’t come to me for nothin’ after this.  Don’t ever you darken my doorstep ag’in,’ ’e says.  And Mr. Bayard, sir, ’e ups and laughs fiendish in ’is own father’s fice.  ‘You’ve got another guess comin’,’ he mocks ‘im open’:  ’you’re in this business as deep as me,’ ’e says, ’and if you cross me, I’ll double-cross you, s’elp me Gawd, and in the newspapers, too.’  And with that, out ’e went in a rige.”

“So that was the way of it!” P. Sybarite commented dully.

So Mrs. Inche had sought the father to revenge herself upon the son; and with this outcome—­Bayard unharmed, his father dead!...