"Done!" said P. Sybarite instantly. "If I get away with it, you pay me five hundred dollars. Is that right?"
"Exactly!"
"But—where shall we meet to settle the wager?"
Penfield smiled cheerfully. "Dine with me at the Bizarre this evening at seven."
"If I lose, with pleasure. Otherwise, you are to be my guest."
"It's a bargain."
"And—that being understood," pursued P. Sybarite curiously—"perhaps you won't mind explaining your grounds for this conspicuous confidence."
"Not in the least," said the other, pulling comfortably at his cigar—"that is, if you're willing to come through with a little information. I'm curious to know how you came to butt in here on my personal card of introduction. Where did you get it?"
"Found it in a hat left in my possession by a gentleman in a great hurry, whom I much desired to see again, and therefore—presuming him to be Mr. Bailey Penfield—came here to find."
"A gentleman unknown to you?"