"That?" she questioned. "That's not a Police Department gun. Where'd you—"
"Oh, yes, it is. It's the new pattern—recently adopted. They've just begun to issue 'em. I got mine to-day—"
The lady's lips curled. "Very well," she concluded curtly. "I don't believe a word you say, but we'll see. Lead the way—show me one solitary sign that a burglar has been here—"
"Perhaps you'd prefer me to withdraw from the case?" the little man suggested with offended dignity. "After all, I may be mistaken—"
"You'd better not be. I warn you, find me a burglar—or"—she added with unmistakable significance—"I'll find one myself."
Interpreting the level challenge of her glance, P. Sybarite's heart quaked, his soul curdled, his stomach for picaresque adventure failed him entirely: anatomically, in short, he was hopelessly disqualified for his chosen rôle of favourite of Kismet, protagonist of this Day of Days. Withal, there was no use offering resistance to the demands of this masterful woman; she was patently one to be humoured against a more auspicious turn of affairs.
He shrugged, gave in with a gesture. Her imperative arm, uplifted, indicated an inner door.
"Find that burglar!"
"Swell chance I've got to get away with that proposition," he grumbled. "You've delayed me long enough to let any burglar get clean away!"
"And you hang back, giving him more time," she cut in. "Lead the way, now!"