Half angry, half amused, wholly confused, she told him: "Fifteen."
"Then one number only remains."
His lips hardened as he read the initials pencilled opposite that numeral; they were "B.S."
"Bayard Shaynon?" he queried.
She assented with a nod, her brows gathering.
Coolly, with the miniature pencil attached to the card, he changed the small, faint B to a large black P, strengthened the S to correspond, and added to that ybarite; then with a bow returned the card.
The girl received the evidence of her senses with a silent gasp.
He bowed again: "Yours to command."
"You—Mr. Sybarite!"
"I, Miss Blessington."