“Well?” he wound up almost gaily.  “What luck?”

“The worst.  Where are my rags?  I’ve got to change and run.  Also—­while you’re up”—­Peter had just dropped into a chair—­“you might be good enough to mix me a Scotch and soda.”

Whereupon, while changing his clothes, and between breaths and gulps of whiskey-and-water, P. Sybarite delivered himself of an abbreviated summary of what had happened at the ball and after.

“But why,” he wound up peevishly—­“why didn’t you tell me Bayard Shaynon lived in the flat below you?”

“Didn’t occur to me; and if you ask me, I don’t see why it should interest you now.”

“Because,” said P. Sybarite quietly, “I’m going down there and break in as soon as I’m dressed fit to go to jail.”

“In the sacred name of Insanity—!”

“If he’s out, I’ll steal that telegram and find out whether it has any bearing on the case.  If it hasn’t, I’ll sift every inch of the room for a suspicion of a leading clue.”

“But if he’s in—?”

“I’ll take my chances,” said P. Sybarite with grim brevity.

“Unarmed?”

“Not if I know the nature of the brute.”  He stood up, fully dressed but for his shoes.  “Now—­my gun, please.”

“Top drawer of the buffet there.  How are you going?  Fire escape?”

“Where is it?” P. Sybarite asked as he possessed himself of his weapon.

“Half a minute.”  Peter Kenny held out his hand.  “Let’s have a look at that gun—­will you?”

“What for?”

“One of those newfangled automatic pistols—­isn’t it?  I ’ve never seen one before.”

“But—­Great Scott!—­you’ve had this here—­”

“I know, but I didn’t pay much attention—­thinking of other things—­”

“But you’re delaying me—­”

“Mean to,” said Peter Kenny purposefully; and without giving P. Sybarite the least hint of his intention, suddenly imprisoned his wrist, grabbed the weapon by the barrel, and took it to himself—­with the greater ease since the other neither understood nor attempted resistance.

“What in blazes—?” he enquired, puzzled, watching Peter turn the weapon over curiously in his hands.  “I should think—­”

“There!” Peter interrupted placidly, withdrawing the magazine clip from its slot in the butt and returning the now harmless mechanism.  “Now run along.  Fire-escape’s outside the far window in the bedroom, yonder.”

“What the deuce!  What’s the matter with you?  Hand over that clip.  What good is this gun without it?”

“For your present purpose, it’s better than if loaded,” Peter asserted complacently.  “For purposes of intimidation—­which is all you want of it—­grand!  And it can’t go off by accident and make you an unintentional murderer.”

P. Sybarite’s jaw dropped and his eyes opened; but after an instant, he nodded in entire agreement.

“That’s a head you have on your shoulders, boy!” said he.  “As for mine, I’ve a notion that it has never really jelled.”