“Wel-l....”  George floundered helplessly for a moment; and fell back again upon an imagination for the time being stimulated to an abnormal degree of inventiveness: 

“P’raps old Shaynon’s double-crossed her somehow we don’t know nothin’ about.  He ain’t above it, if all they tell of him’s true.  Maybe he’s got her coin away from her, and she had to go to work for a livin’.  Stranger things have happened in this burg, P.S.”

It was the turn of P.S. to hesitate in doubt; or at all events, so George Bross inferred from a sudden change in the expression of the little man’s eyes.  Momentarily they seemed to cloud, as if in introspection.  But he rallied quickly enough.

“All things are possible, George,” he admitted with his quizzical grin.  “But this time you’re mistaken.  I’m not arguing with you, George; I’m telling you:  you’re hopelessly mistaken.”

“You think so—­huh?” growled George.  “Well, I got eight iron bucks that says Marian Blessington to any five of your money.”

He made a bold show of his pay envelope.

“It’d be a shame to rob you, George,” said P. Sybarite.  “Besides, you’re bad-tempered when broke.”

“Never you mind about that.  Here’s my eight, if you’ve got five that makes a noise like Molly Lessing.”

P. Sybarite laughed softly and produced the little wad of bills that represented his weekly wage.  At this, George involuntarily drew back.

“And how would you settle the bet?”

“Leave it to her,” insisted George in an expiring gasp of bravado.

“You’d ask her yourself?”

“Ye-es—­”

“And let it stand on her answer?”

“Wel-l—­”

“Here she comes now,” added P. Sybarite, glancing up the street.  “Quick, now; you’ve only a minute to decide.  Is it a bet?”

With a gesture of brave decision, George returned his money to his pocket.

“You’re an easy mark,” he observed in accents of deep pity.  “I knew you’d think I meant it.”

“But didn’t you, George?”

“Nah—­nothin’ like that!  I was just kiddin’ you along, to see how much you’d swallow.”

“It’s all right then,” agreed P. Sybarite.  “Only—­George!”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you breathe a word of this to Miss Lessing?”

“Why not?”

“Because I tell you not to—­because,” said P. Sybarite firmly, “I forbid you.”

“You—­you forbid me?  Holy Mike!  And what—­”

“Sssh!” P. Sybarite warned him sibilantly.  “Miss Lessing might hear you....  What will happen if you disobey me,” he added as the shop girl turned in at the gateway, lowering his own voice and fixing the shipping clerk with a steely stare, “will be another accident, much resembling that of this afternoon—­if you haven’t forgotten.  Now mind what I tell you, and be good.”

Mr. Bross swelled with resentment; exhibited a distorted and empurpled visage; but kept silence.