"Yes, I know," the little man interrupted wearily: "you'll 'deal with' me later, 'at a time and a place more fitting.'...Well, I won't mind the delay if you'll just trot along now, like a good dog—"
Unable longer to endure the lash of his mordacious wit, Shaynon turned and left them alone on the balcony.
"I'm sorry," P. Sybarite told the girl in unfeigned contrition. "Please forgive me. I've a vicious temper—the colour of my hair—and I couldn't resist the temptation to make him squirm."
"If you only knew how I despised him," she said, "you wouldn't think it necessary to excuse yourself—though I don't know yet what it's all about."
"Simply, I happen to have the whip-hand of the Shaynon conscience," returned P. Sybarite; "I happened to know that Bayard is secretly the husband of a woman notorious in New York under the name of Mrs. Jefferson Inche."
"Is that true? Dare I believe—?"
Intimations of fears inexpressibly alleviated breathed in her cry.
"I believe it."
"On what grounds? Tell me!"
"The word of the lady herself, together with the evidence of his confusion just now. What more do you need?"