"But consider how they've been served out—thunderbolts—justice from the very skies! All except one, and," said P. Sybarite solemnly, "God do so to me and more also if he's alive or outside bars before this sun sets!"
"Who?"
"November!"
"What can you do to him?"
"To begin with, beat him to that damned asylum. Fetch me the suburban telephone directory."
"Telephone directory?"
"Yes!" P. Sybarite raved. "What else? Where is it? And where are your wits?"
"Why, here—"
Turning, Peter took the designated volume from its hook beneath the wall instrument at the very elbow of P. Sybarite.
"I thought," he commented mildly, "you had all your wits about you and could see it."