"Don't be impudent," grumbled P. Sybarite, rapidly thumbing the pages. "Westchester," he muttered, adding: "Oscahana—H—Ha—H-a-d—"
"Are you dotty?"
"Look at that telegram. It's dated from Oscahana: that's somewhere in Westchester, if I'm not mistaken. Yes; here we are: H-a-y—Haynes Private Sanatorium—number, Oscahana one-nine. You call 'em."
"What shall I say?"
"Where the devil's that cartridge clip you took away from me?... Give it here.... And I want my money."
"But," Peter protested in a daze, handing over the clip and watching P. Sybarite rummage in the buffet drawer wherein he had banked his fortune before setting out for the Bizarre—"but what do you want me to—"
"Call up that sanatorium—find out if Marian has arrived. If she has, threaten fire and sword and—all that sort of thing—if they don't release her—hand her over to me on demand. If she hasn't, make 'em understand I'll dynamite the place if they let November bring her there and get away before I show up. Tell 'em to call in the police and pinch November on sight. And then get a lawyer and send him up there after me. And then—set the police after November—tell 'em you heard the shot and went down the fire-escape to investigate.... I'm off."
The door slammed on Peter as Bewilderment.
In the hall, savagely punching the elevator bell, P. Sybarite employed the first part of an enforced wait to return the clip of cartridges to its chamber in the butt of Mrs. Inche's pistol....
He punched the bell again....