He stood peering down, with an obvious lack of recognition that hinted at failing sight.
"I don't seem to know you," he said slowly, with a weary shake of his head; "and it's most inopportune—the hour. I fear you must excuse me."
"That can't be," P. Sybarite returned. "I've business with you—important. Perhaps you didn't catch the name I gave your butler—Nemesis."
"Nemesis?" Shaynon repeated vacantly. He staggered and descended a step before a groping hand checked him on the baluster-rail. "Nemesis! Is this an untimely joke of some sort, sir?"
His accents quavered querulously; and P. Sybarite with a flash of scorn put his unnatural condition down to drink.
"Far from it," he retorted ruthlessly. "The cat's out, my friend—your bag lean and flapping emptiness! What," he demanded sternly—"what have you done with Marian Blessington?"
"Mar—Marian?" the old voice iterated. "Why, she"—the man pulled himself together with a determined effort—"she's in her room, of course. Where should she be?"
"Is that true?" P. Sybarite demanded of the butler in a manner so peremptory that the truth slipped out before the fellow realised it.
"Miss Marian 'asn't returned as yet from the ball," he whispered. "'E—'e's not quite 'imself, sir. 'E's 'ad a bit of a shock, as one might s'y. I'd go easy on 'im, if you'll take a word from me."
But P. Sybarite traversed his advice without an instant's consideration.