"You saw him take it," the detective persisted.
"No—I didn't; I suspected him. It's you who found the brooch on him, and it's your duty to make the charge."
"You're one grand little lightning-change-of-heart-artist—gotta slip it to you for that," the detective observed truculently. "Now, lis'n: I don't make no charge—"
"Any employee of the establishment will do as well, for my purpose," P. Sybarite cut in. "Come, Mr. Manager! How about you? Mr. Shaynon declines; your detective has no stomach for the job. Suppose you take on the dirty work—kind permission of Bayard Shaynon, Esquire. I don't care, so long as I get my grounds for suit against the Bizarre."
The manager spread out expostulatory palms. "Me, I have nossing whatever to do with the matter," he protested. "To me it would seem Mrs. Strone should make the charge."
"Well?" mumbled the detective of Shaynon. "How aboutcha?"
"Wait," mumbled Shaynon, moving toward the door. "I'll fetch Mrs. Strone."
"Don't go without saying good-bye," P. Sybarite admonished him severely. "It isn't pretty manners."
The door slammed tempestuously, and the little man chuckled with an affectation of ease to which he was entirely a stranger: ceaselessly his mind was engaged with the problem of this trumped-up charge of Shaynon's.
Was simple jealousy and resentment, a desire to "get even," the whole explanation?