In this room—a small interior apartment, plainly furnished as a private office—two people were waiting: a stout, smooth little man with a moustache of foreign extraction, who on better acquaintance proved to be the manager of the establishment; the other Bayard Shaynon, stationed with commendable caution on the far side of the room, the bulk of a broad, flat-topped mahogany desk fencing him off from the wrathful little captive.
"Well?" this last demanded of the detective the moment they were private.
"Take it calm', son, take it calm'," counselled the man, his tone not altogether lacking in good-nature. "There seems to be some question as to your right to attend that party upstairs; we got to investigate you, for the sake of the rep. of the house. Get me?"
P. Sybarite drew a long breath. If this were all that Shaynon could have trumped up to discomfit him—! He looked that one over with the curling lip of contempt.
"I believe it's no crime to enter where you've not been invited, provided you don't force door or window to do it," he observed.
"You admit—eh?" the manager broke in excitedly—"you have no card of invitation, what?"
"I freely admit I have no card of invitation what or whatever."
"Then perhaps you'll explain whatcha doing here," suggested the detective, not without affability.
"Willingly: I came to find a friend—a lady whose name I don't care to bring into this discussion—unless Mr. Shaynon has forestalled me."
"Mr. Shaynon has mentioned a lady's name," said the manager with a significance lost upon P. Sybarite.