"One moment of your valuable time. I believe you delivered a message at the Monastery Apartments in Forty-third Street this morning."
"Well, an' what 'f I did?"
"Only this."
P. Sybarite extracted an immense roll of bills from his pocket; transferred it to his other hand; delved deeper; eventually produced a single twenty-dollar gold-piece.
"Take this," he said, tossing it to the boy with princely nonchalance. "It's the last of a lot, but—it's yours."
"What for?" Western Union demanded in amaze; while, as for George Bross, he developed plain symptoms of apoplexy.
"You'll never know," said P. Sybarite. "Now run along before I come to."
In the shadow of this threat, Western Union fled precipitately....
P. Sybarite rose; yawned; smiled benignantly upon George Bross.
"I'm off to bed—was only waiting for this message," he announced; "but before I go—tell me; how much money does Violet think you ought to be earning before you're eligible for the Matrimonial Stakes?"