"Mr.—name—what? Beg pardon, sir!"
"Nem-e-sis," P. Sybarite articulated distinctly. "And don't Mister it. He'll understand."
"Thenk you," muttered the servant blankly; and turned.
"If he doesn't—tell him it's the gentleman who was not masked at the Bizarre to-night."
"Very good, sir."
The man moved off toward the foot of a broad, shallow staircase at the back of the hall.
On impulse, P. Sybarite strode after him.
"On second thoughts, you needn't announce me. I'll go up with you."
"I'm afraid I can't permit that, sir," observed the butler, horrified.
"Afraid you'll have to."