"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.