“That’s one thing, at least, that the popular novelist knows right,” asserted Mr. Kenny with conviction.  “Sorry for the coat—­but you’ll find scissors yonder, on my desk.”

And when P. Sybarite fetched them, he sat himself sideways in a straight-backed chair and cheerfully endured the little man’s impromptu essays in first-aid measures.

A very little snipping and slashing sufficed to do away with the shoulder and sleeve of the boy’s coat and to lay open his waistcoat as well, exposing a bloodstained shirt.  And then, at the instant when P. Sybarite was noting with relief that the stain showed both in back and in front, the telephone shrilled.

“If you don’t mind answering that—­” grunted Mr. Kenny.

P. Sybarite was already at the instrument.

“Yes?” he answered.  “Dr. Higgins?”

“Sorry, sir,” replied a strange voice:  “Dr. Higgins isn’t in yet.  Any message?”

“Tell him Mr. Kenny needs him at the Monastery, and the matter’s urgent....  Doctor not in,” he reported superfluously, returning to cut away collar, tie, shirt, and undershirt.  “Never mind, I shouldn’t be surprised if we could manage to do without him, after all.”

“Meaning it’s not so bad—?”

“Meaning,” said the other, exposing the naked shoulder, “I’m beginning to hope you’ve had a marvellously narrow escape.”

“Feels like it,” said Kenny, ironic.

P. Sybarite withheld response while he made close examination.  At the base of Mr. Kenny’s neck, well above the shoulder-blade, dark blood was welling slowly from an ugly puncture.  And in front there was a corresponding puncture, but smaller.  And presently his deft and gentle fingers, exploring the folds of the boy’s undershirt, closed upon the bullet itself.

“I don’t believe,” he announced, displaying his find, “you deserve such luck.  Somehow you managed to catch this just right for it to slip through without either breaking bone or severing artery.  And by a special dispensation of an all-wise Providence, Red November must have been preoccupied when he loaded that gun, for somehow a steel-jacketed instead of a soft-nosed bullet got into the chamber he wasted on you.  Otherwise you’d have been pretty badly smashed.  As it is, you’ll probably be laid up only a few days.”

“I told you I wasn’t so badly hurt—­”

“God’s good to the Irish.  Where’s your bathroom?”

With a gesture Kenny indicated its location.

“And handkerchiefs—?”

“Upper bureau drawer in the bedroom.”

In a twinkling P. Sybarite was off and back again with materials for an antiseptic wash and a rude bandage.

“How’d you know I was Irish?” demanded the patient.

“By yoursilf’s name,” quoth P. Sybarite in a thick brogue as natural as grass, while he worked away busily. “’Tis black Irish, and well I know it.  ’Twas me mither’s maiden name—­Kenny.  She had a brother, Michael he was and be way av bein’ a rich conthractor in this very town as ever was, befure he died—­God rist his sowl!  He left two children—­a young leddy who mis-spells her name M-a-e A-l-y-s—­keep still!—­and Peter, yersilf, me cousin, if it’s not mistaken I am.”