"But who am I," pleaded the little man, "to gaze unblinded upon the sun?"
"That," said the lady, smothering a giggle, "will be about all from you. Get up—or I'll call in a sure-enough cop to search your title to that uniform."
Hastily P. Sybarite withdrew his head and rose. An embarrassed glance askance comforted him measurably: the lady had thrown an exquisite negligee over her nightdress and had thrust her pretty feet into extravagantly pretty silken mules.
"Now," said she tersely, "we'll comb the premises for this burglar of yours: and if we don't find him"—her lips tightened, her brows clouded ominously—"I promise you an interesting time of it!"
"I'm vastly diverted as it is—truly I am!" protested P. Sybarite, ruefully eyeing the lady's pistol. "But there 's really no need to disturb yourself: I'm quite competent to take care of any housebreaker—"
"That," she broke in, "is something you'll have to show me.... Where's your nightstick?"
"My—er—what?"
"Your nightstick. What've you done with it?"
With consternation P. Sybarite investigated the vacant loop at his side.
"Must've dropped out while I was shinning over the back fence," he surmised vaguely. "However, I shan't need it. This"—with a bright and confident smile displaying Penfield's revolver—"will do just as well—better, in fact."