"I'll do better 'n that," chuckled the man. "Have a cigar."
"Thank you," said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering. "All I need now is a match: I acknowledge the habit."
The match supplied, he smoked in silence.
Four minutes passed, by the clock: no sign of the manager, Shaynon, or Mrs. Strone.
"Story?" the detective suggested at length.
"Plant," retorted P. Sybarite as tersely.
"You mean he salted you?"
"In the elevator, of course."
"It come to me, that was the way of it when he sprung that bunk stuff about you coarsely loading said loot into your coat-tail," admitted the detective. "That didn't sound sensible, even if you did have a skirt to fuss into a cab. The ordinary vest-pocket of commerce would've kept it just as close, besides being more natural—easy to get at. Then the guy was too careful to tip me off not to pinch you until the lady had went—didn't want her name dragged into it.... A fellow in my job's gotta have a lot of imagination," he concluded complacently. "That's why I'm letting you get away with it in this unprofessional manner."
"More human than in line with the best literary precedent, eh?"