Unruffled, P. Sybarite sipped his beer—sipped it sparingly and not without misgivings, but sedulously to keep in character as a familiar of the dive.
Presently there came yet another lull in the clatter of tongues; and again the accents of the boy sounded distinctly from the gangster's table:
"I won't—that's flat! I refuse positively—go up stairs—sleep it off. I'm a' right—give you m' word—in the head. All my trouble's—these mutinous dogs of legs. But I'll make 'em mind, yet. Trust me—"
And again the babel blotted out his utterance.
But P. Sybarite had experienced a sudden rush of intelligence to the head—was in the throes of that mental process which it is our habit wittily to distinguish by the expressive term, "putting two and two together."
Could this, by any chance, be "that boy" who, Mr. Brian Shaynon had been assured, wouldn't know where he'd been when he waked? Was an attempt to ensure that desired consummation through the agency of a drug, being made in the open restaurant?
If not, why was Red November neglecting all other affairs to press drink upon a man who knew when he had enough?
If so, what might be the nature of the link connecting the boy with the "job," to be on which at half-past two November had just now covenanted with Brian Shaynon?
What incriminating knowledge could this boy possess, to render old Shaynon, willing that his memory should be expurgated by such a mind- and nerve-shattering agent as the knock-out drop of White Light commerce?
Now Shaynon was capable of almost any degree of infamy, if not, perhaps, the absolute peer of Red November.