"It makes no difference," Shaynon insisted. "Theft's theft!"
"It makes a deal of difference whether it's grand or petit larceny," P. Sybarite flashed—"a difference almost as wide and deep as that which yawns between attempted and successful wife-murder, Mr. Shaynon!"
His jaw dropped and a look of stupefying terror stamped itself upon Shaynon's face.
It was the turn of P. Sybarite to laugh.
"Well?" he demanded cuttingly. "Are you ready to come to the station-house and make a charge against me? I'll go peaceful as a lamb with the kind cop, if by so doing I can take you with me. But if I do, believe me, you'll never get out without a bondsman."
Shaynon recollected himself with visible effort.
"The man 's crazy," he muttered sickishly, rising. "I don't know what he 's talking about. Arrest him—take him to the station-house—why don't you?"
"Who'll make the charge?" asked the detective, eyeing Shaynon without favour.
"Not Bayard Shaynon!" P. Sybarite asseverated.
"It's not my brooch," Shaynon asserted defensively.