"What do you want?"
Irritating discourtesy inhered in the speaker's tone. P. Sybarite stiffened his neck.
"To see Mr. Penfield," he returned firmly—"of course!"
"What Mr. Penfield?" asked the other, after a pause so transient that it was little more than distinguishable, but which to P. Sybarite indicated beyond question that at least one Mr. Penfield was known to his cautious interlocutor.
"Mr. Bailey Penfield," he replied. "Who else?"
During a pause slightly longer than the first, the hostile and suspicious eyes summed him up a second time.
"No such party here," was the verdict. The man drew back and made as if to shut the grille.
"Nonsense!" P. Sybarite insisted sharply. "I have his card with this number—got it from him only to-night."
"Card?" The face returned to the grille.
P. Sybarite made no bones about displaying his alleged credential.