which leaves him, ostensibly, a marketable bachelor.  Now, I happen to know a marriage has recently been offered him through which he would immediately come into control of a big pot of money, and naturally he’s strong for it.  But I refused his offer of a cool half-million to play the Reno circuit, and so he concluded to sue for a divorce with a revolver, a Maxim silencer, and a perfect alibi.  Do you follow me?”

“As far as the alibi.”

“Oh, that’s quite simple.  We don’t live together, and he’s in sure-enough society, and I’m not.  To-night the annual Hadley-Owen post-lenten masquerade’s in full swing just around the corner, and friend husband’s there with the rest of the haughty bunch.  Can’t you see how easy it would be for him to drop round here between dances, murder his lawful wedded wife, and beat it back, without his absence ever being noticed?”

“It does sound feasible, if—­ah—­sickening,” P. Sybarite admitted.  “But really, it’s hard to believe.  Are you positive—?”

“I tell you,” said the woman impatiently, “I recognised him; I saw his mouth—­his mask wouldn’t hide that—­and knew him instantly.”

P. Sybarite was silent:  he, too, had recognized that mouth.

Briefly he meditated upon this curious freak of Kismet that was linking his fortunes of the night with those of the man with the twisted mouth.

“Now you know the lay of the land—­how about helping me out?”

Now the trail of the man with the twisted mouth promised fair to lead to Molly Lessing.  P. Sybarite didn’t linger on his decision.

“I’m awf’ly impressionable,” he conceded with a sigh; “some day, I’m afraid, it’ll get me in a peck of trouble.”

“I can count on you, then?”

“Short of trying a ’prentice hand at assassination—­”

“Don’t be an ass.  I only want to protect myself.  Besides, you can’t refuse.  Consider how lenient I’ve been with you.”

P. Sybarite lifted questioning eyebrows, and dragged down the corners of a dubious mouth.

“If I wanted to be nasty,” Mrs. Inche explained, “you’d be on your way now to a cell in the East Fifty-first Street station.  But I was grateful.”

“The Saints be praised for that!” exclaimed the little man fervently.  “What’s it for?”

“For waking me up in time to prevent my murder in my sleep,” she returned coolly; “and also for being the spunky little devil you are and chasing off that hound of a husband of mine.  If it wasn’t for you, he’d’ve got me sure.  Or else,” she amended, “I’d’ve got him; which would have been almost as unpleasant—­what with being pinched and tried and having juries disagree and getting off at last only on the plea of insanity—­and all that.”

“Madam,” said P. Sybarite, rising, “the more I see of you, the more you claim my admiration.  I entreat you, permit me to go away before my emotion deepens into disastrous infatuation.”