"The worst. Where are my rags? I've got to change and run. Also—while you're up"—Peter had just dropped into a chair—"you might be good enough to mix me a Scotch and soda."
Whereupon, while changing his clothes, and between breaths and gulps of whiskey-and-water, P. Sybarite delivered himself of an abbreviated summary of what had happened at the ball and after.
"But why," he wound up peevishly—"why didn't you tell me Bayard Shaynon lived in the flat below you?"
"Didn't occur to me; and if you ask me, I don't see why it should interest you now."
"Because," said P. Sybarite quietly, "I'm going down there and break in as soon as I'm dressed fit to go to jail."
"In the sacred name of Insanity—!"
"If he's out, I'll steal that telegram and find out whether it has any bearing on the case. If it hasn't, I'll sift every inch of the room for a suspicion of a leading clue."
"But if he's in—?"
"I'll take my chances," said P. Sybarite with grim brevity.
"Unarmed?"