P. Sybarite nodded indifferently. Profound thought enwrapped him like a mantle.
The butler lingered, the seals of professional reticence broken by this strange and awful accident. But there was no real emotion in his temper—only curiosity, self-interest, the impulse of loquacity.
"Stroke," he observed thoughtfully, fingering his pendulous jowls and staring; "that's w'at it was—a stroke, like. He'd 'ad a bit of shock before you come in, sir."
"Yes?" murmured P. Sybarite absently.
"Yes, sir; a bit of a shock, owin' to 'is 'avin' quarrelled with Mr. Bayard, sir."
"Oh!" P. Sybarite roused. "Quarrelled with his son, you say?"
"Yes, sir; somethin' dreadful they was goin' on. 'E couldn't 'ave got over it when you come. Mr. Bayard 'adn't been gone, not more than five minutes, sir."
P. Sybarite interrogated with his eyes alone.
"It was a bit odd, come to think of it—the 'ole affair, sir. Must 'ave been over an hour ago, Mr. Shaynon 'ere, 'e come 'ome alone from the dance—I see you must've been there yourself, sir, if I m'y mike so bold as to tike notice of your costume. Very fawncy it is, too, sir—becomes your style 'andsome, it does, sir."
"Never mind me. What happened when Mr. Shaynon came home?"