In five minutes the car drew up in front of one of those few old-fashioned, brownstone, English-basement residences which to-day survive on Fifth Avenue below Fifty-ninth Street, elbowed, shouldered, and frowned down upon by beetling hives of trade.
At all of its wide, old-style windows, ruffled shades of straw-coloured silk were drawn. One sign alone held out any promise that all within were not deep in slumber: the outer front doors were not closed. Upon the frosted glass panels of the inner doors a dim light cast a sickly yellow stain.
Laying hold of an obsolete bell-pull, P. Sybarite yanked it with a spirit in tune with his temper. Immediately, and considerably to his surprise, the doors were thrown open and on the threshold a butler showed him a face of age, grey with the strain of a sleepless night, and drawn and set with bleary eyes.
"Mr. Shaynon?" the little man demanded sharply.
"W'ich Mr. Shaynon, sir?" enquired the butler, too weary to betray surprise—did he feel any—at this ill-timed call.
"Either—I don't care which."
"Mr. Bayard Shaynon 'as just left—not five minutes ago, sir."
"Left for where?"
"His apartments, I presume, sir."
"Then I'll see Mr. Brian Shaynon."