But that laugh was as good as a douche of cold water in his face. He came abruptly to his senses; saw clearly how this thing had come to pass: the temptation of the loose brooch to Shaynon's fingers itching for revenge, while they stood so near together in the elevator, the opportunity grasped with the avidity of low cunning, the brooch transferred, under cover of the crush, to the coat-tail pocket.
Mute in this limpid comprehension of the circumstances, he sobered thoroughly from sickening consternation; remained in his heart a foul sediment of deadly hatred for Shaynon; to whom he nodded with a significance that wiped the grimace from the man's face as with a sponge. Something clearly akin to fear informed Shaynon's eyes. He sat forward with an uneasy glance at the door.
And then P. Sybarite smiled sunnily in the face of the detective.
"Caught with the goods on, eh?" he chirped.
"Well," growled the man, dashed. "Now, what do you think?"
"I'm every bit as much surprised as you are," P. Sybarite confessed. "Come now—be fair to me—own up: you didn't expect to see that—did you?"
The detective hesitated. "Well," he grudged, "you did have me goin' for a minute—you were so damn' cock-sure—and it certainly is pretty slick work for an amateur."
"You think I'm an amateur—eh?"
"I guess I know every map in the Rogues' Gallery as well's the palm of my hand!"
"And mine is not among them?" P. Sybarite insisted triumphantly.