“You saw this lady, then?” the detective put in sharply.

“Why—­yes,” P. Sybarite admitted.

“He not only saw her,” Shaynon interpolated with a malicious sneer, “but I saw him see her—­and saw him get away with it.”

“Get away with—­what?” P. Sybarite asked blankly.

“Mr. Shaynon,” drawled the detective, “says he saw you lift a di’mond brooch off’n Mrs. Addison Strone, while you was in the elevator.”

And while P. Sybarite gaped, thunderstruck and breathless with the rage excited by this groundless accusation, the detective looked to Shaynon for confirmation.

“I stood behind him in the elevator, coming down, ten minutes or so ago,” the latter stated heavily.  “Mrs. Addison Strone was immediately in front of him.  The cage was badly crowded—­no one could move.  But practically every one else was with friends, you understand—­laughing, talking, paying no attention to this—­ah—­creature.  As I got in, I noticed that Mrs. Strone’s brooch, a gold bar set with several large diamonds, was apparently loose—­pin had parted from the catch, you know—­and meant to warn her she was in danger of losing it; but I couldn’t, without shouting over this fellow’s head, so waited until we got out; and then, when I managed to get to her, the brooch was gone.  Later, I remembered this—­fellow—­and looking round the lobby, saw him in a corner, apparently concealing something about his person.  So I spoke to you about it.”

P. Sybarite’s face settled into grim lines.  “Shaynon,” he said slowly, without visible temper, “this won’t get you anything but trouble.  Remember that, when I come to pay you out—­unless you’ll have the grace to retract here and now.”

As if he had not heard, Shaynon deliberately produced a gold case, supplied himself with a cigarette, and lighted it.

“Meanin’, I take it,” the detective interpolated, “you plead not guilty?”

P. Sybarite nodded curtly.  “It’s a lie, out of whole cloth,” he declared.  “You’ve only to search me.  I’m not strong for that—­mind—­and I’m going to make the lot of you smart for this indignity; but I’m perfectly willing to prove my innocence now, by letting you search me, so long as it affords me an earlier opportunity to catch Mister Shaynon when he hasn’t got you to protect him.”

“That’s big talk,” commended the detective, apparently a little prepossessed; “and it’s all to the good if you can back it up.”  He rose.  “You don’t mind my going through your pockets—­sure?”

“Go ahead,” P. Sybarite told him shortly.

“To save time,” Shaynon suggested dispassionately, “you might explore his coat-tail pockets first.  It was there that I saw him put away the brooch.”

Nervously in his indignation, P. Sybarite caught his coat-tails from beneath his Inverness, dragged them round in front of him, and fumbling, found a pocket.

Groping therein, his fingers brushed something strange to him—­a small, hard, and irregular body which, escaping his clutches, fell with a soft thud to the carpet at his feet.