"Dolt!... Blockhead!... Imbecile!... Idiot!... Numskull!... Ass!...
Simpleton!... Loon!..."
The chill air of early morning wiped the blistering epithets from his
lips as he fled like a madman down Fifth Avenue, at every stride
wringing from the depths of an embittered bosom new and more virulent
terms of vituperation with which to characterize his infatuated
stupidity--and finding one and all far too mild. In simple truth, the
King's English lacked invective poisonous enough to do justice to his
self-contempt.
Deliberately had he permitted himself to be duped, circumvented,
over-reached. He had held in his hand a tangible clue to that mystery
which had so perplexed him--and had allowed it to be filched away
before he could recognise it and shape his course accordingly.
Why had he never for an instant dreamed that the term "_two-thirty_"
could indicate anything but the hour of some otherwise undesignated
appointment? Of course it had signified the number of Marian's
carriage-check, "230": _two hundred and thirty_, rolling off the
modern tongue, stripped to essentials--thanks to the telephone's
abbreviated influence--as, simply, "_two-thirty_"!
And he had held that check in his hand, had memorised its number and
repeated it to Marian, had heard it bawled by the carriage porter, had
shouted it himself in reply: never for an instant thinking to connect
it with the elder Shaynon's parting admonition to the gang leader!
If he had ere this entertained any doubts whatever of the ugly grounds
for his fears they were now resolved by recognition of Bayard's clumsy
ruse to keep him both out of the cab and out of the way, while
November and his lieutenants executed their infamous commission....
And all that was now ten--fifteen--twenty minutes old! Marian's car
was gone; and if it had not reached the Plaza, the girl was lost,
irrevocably lost to the frantic little man with the twinkling red
heels and scarlet breeches, sprinting so wildly down Fifth Avenue in
the dank, weird dusk that ran before the dawn of that April morning.
Fortunately he hadn't far to run; else he would certainly have been
waylaid or overhauled by some policeman of enquiring turn of mind,
anxious (in the way of duty) to learn his reason for such
extraordinary haste.
As it was, P. Sybarite managed to make his goal in record time without
attracting the attention of more than half a dozen wayfarers; all of
whom gave him way and went their own with that complete indifference
so distinctly Manhattanesque....
He had emerged from the restaurant building to find the street bare of
any sort of hirable conveyance and himself in a fret too exacting to
consider walking to the Plaza or taking a street-car thither. Nothing
less than a taxicab--and that, one with a speed-mad chauffeur--would
satisfy his impatient humour.
And indeed, if there were a grain of truth in his suspicions, formless
though in a measure they remained, he had not an instant to lose.
But on the way to the Bizarre from Peter Kenny's rooms, some freak of
a mind superficially preoccupied had caused him to remark, on the
south side of Forty-third Street, immediately east of Sixth Avenue, a
long rank of buildings which an utilitarian age had humbled from their
once proud estate of private stables to the lowlier degree of quarters
for motor vehicles both public and private.
Of these one building boasted the blazing electric announcement: "_ALL
NIGHT GARAGE_."
Into this last P. Sybarite pelted at the top of his speed and pulled
up puffing, to stare nervously round a place gloomy, cavernous, and
pungent with fragrance of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Here and there
lonely electric bulbs made visible somnolent ranks of motor-cars. Out
of the shadows behind him, presently, came a voice drawling:
"You certainly do take on like you'd lost a power of trouble."
P. Sybarite whirled round as if stung. The speaker occupied a chair
tilted back against the wall, his feet on the rungs, a cigarette
smouldering between his lips in open contempt of the regulations of
the Fire Department and all other admonitions of ordinary
common-sense.
"What can I do for you?" he resumed, nothing about him stirring save
eyes that twinkled as they travelled from head to foot of the odd and
striking figure P. Sybarite presented as _Beelzebub, Knight Errant_.
"Taxi!" the little man panted vociferously.
The other yawned and stretched. "It can't be done," he admitted
fairly. "They ain't no such animal on the premises."
With a gesture P. Sybarite singled out the nearest car.
"What's that?" he demanded angrily.
Shading his eyes, the man examined it with growing wonder which
presently found expression: "As I live, it's an autymobeel!"
"Damn your sense of humour!" stormed P. Sybarite. "What's the matter
with that car?"
"As man to man--nothing."
"Why can't I have it?"
"Ten dollars an hour--"
"I'll take it."
"But you _asked_ for a taxi," grumbled the man, rising to press a
button. Whereupon a bell shrilled somewhere in the dark backwards of
the establishment. "Deposit...?" he suggested, turning back.
P. Sybarite disbursed a golden double-eagle; and to the operator who,
roused by the bell, presently drifted out of the shadows, gaping and
rubbing his eyes, he promised a liberal tip for haste.
In two minutes he was rolling out of the garage, ensconced in the body
of a luxurious and high-powered touring machine which he strongly
suspected to be somebody's private car lawlessly farmed out while its
owner slept.
The twilight was now stronger, if still dull and as cold as the air it
coloured, rendering P. Sybarite grateful for Peter Kenny's inverness
as the car surged spiritedly up the deserted avenue, its disdain for
speed regulations ignored by the string of yawning peg-post
cops--almost the only human beings in sight.
Town was indeed deep sunk in lethargy at that small hour; the
traditional milk-wagon itself seemed to have been caught napping. With
one consent residence and shop and sky-scraping hotel blinked
apathetically at the flying car; then once more turned and slept. Even
the Bizarre had forgotten P. Sybarite--showed at least no sign of
recognition as he scurried past.
A curious sense of illusion troubled the little man. The glamour of
the night was gone and with it all that had lent semblance of
plausibility to his incredible career; daylight forced all back into
confused and distorted perspective, like the pageant of some fantastic
and disordered dream uncertainly recalled long hours after waking.
As for himself, in his absurd attire and bound upon his ambiguous
errand, he was all out of the picture--horribly suggestive of an
addled sparrow who had stayed up all night on purpose to cheat some
legitimately early bird out of a chimerical first worm....
Self-conscious and ill at ease, he presented himself to the amused
inspection of the night force in the office of the Plaza, made his
halting enquiry, and received the discounted assurance that Miss
Blessington, though a known and valued patron of the house, was not
then its guest.
Convinced, as he had been from the moment that the words "two-thirty,"
falling from the lips of the Bizarre's house detective, had made him
alive to his terrible oversight, that this would be the outcome at the
Plaza, he turned away, sobered, outwitted, and miserably at a loss to
guess what next to do.
Gloomily he paused with a hand on the open door of his car, thoughts
profoundly disturbed and unsettled, for so long that the operator grew
restless.
"Where next, sir?" he asked.
"Wait," said P. Sybarite in a manner of abstraction that did him no
injustice; and entering the car, mechanically shut the door and sat
down, permitting his gaze to range absently among the dusky distances
of Central Park; where through the netted, leafless branches, the
lamps that march the winding pathways glimmered like a hundred tiny
moons of gold lost in some vast purple well....
Should he appeal to the police? His solicitude for the girl forbade
him such recourse save as a last resort. Publicity must be avoided
until the time when, all else having failed, it alone held out some
little promise of assistance.
But--adrift and blind upon uncharted seas of uncertainty!--what to do?
Suddenly it became plain to him that if in truth it was with her as he
feared, at least two persons knew what had become of the girl--two
persons aside from himself and her hired kidnappers: Brian Shaynon and
Bayard, his son.
From them alone authoritative information might be extracted, by ruse
or wile or downright intimidation, eked out with effrontery, a stout
heart, and perhaps a little luck.
A baleful light informing his eyes, an ominous expression settling
about his mouth, he gave the operator the address of Shaynon's
town-house; and as the car slipped away from the hotel was sensible of
keen regret that he had left at Peter Kenny's, what time he changed
his clothing, the pistol given him by Mrs. Jefferson Inche, together
with the greater part of his fortuitous fortune--neither firearms nor
large amounts of money seeming polite additions to one's costume for a
dance....
In five minutes the car drew up in front of one of those few
old-fashioned, brownstone, English-basement residences which to-day
survive on Fifth Avenue below Fifty-ninth Street, elbowed, shouldered,
and frowned down upon by beetling hives of trade.
At all of its wide, old-style windows, ruffled shades of
straw-coloured silk were drawn. One sign alone held out any promise
that all within were not deep in slumber: the outer front doors were
not closed. Upon the frosted glass panels of the inner doors a dim
light cast a sickly yellow stain.
Laying hold of an obsolete bell-pull, P. Sybarite yanked it with a
spirit in tune with his temper. Immediately, and considerably to his
surprise, the doors were thrown open and on the threshold a butler
showed him a face of age, grey with the strain of a sleepless night,
and drawn and set with bleary eyes.
"Mr. Shaynon?" the little man demanded sharply.
"W'ich Mr. Shaynon, sir?" enquired the butler, too weary to betray
surprise--did he feel any--at this ill-timed call.
"Either--I don't care which."
"Mr. Bayard Shaynon 'as just left--not five minutes ago, sir."
"Left for where?"
"His apartments, I presume, sir."
"Then I'll see Mr. Brian Shaynon."
The butler's body filled the doorway. Nor did he offer to budge.
"I'm afraid, sir, Mr. Shaynon is 'ardly likely to see any one at this
hour."
"He'll see me," replied P. Sybarite grimly. "He hasn't gone to bed, I
gather?"
"Not yet, sir; but 'e's goin' immediate'."
"Very well. You may as well let me in."
Suspicious but impressed, the servant shuffled aside, and P. Sybarite
brushed past him into the hallway.
"Where is he?"
"If you'll give me your nime, sir, I'll tell him you're 'ere."
P. Sybarite hesitated. He was in anything but the mood for joking, yet
a certain dour humour in the jest caught his fancy and persuaded him
against his better judgment.
"Nemesis," he said briefly.
"Mr.--name--what? Beg pardon, sir!"
"Nem-e-sis," P. Sybarite articulated distinctly. "And don't Mister it.
He'll understand."
"Thenk you," muttered the servant blankly; and turned.
"If he doesn't--tell him it's the gentleman who was not masked at the
Bizarre to-night."
"Very good, sir."
The man moved off toward the foot of a broad, shallow staircase at the
back of the hall.
On impulse, P. Sybarite strode after him.
"On second thoughts, you needn't announce me. I'll go up with you."
"I'm afraid I can't permit that, sir," observed the butler, horrified.
"Afraid you'll have to."
And P. Sybarite would have pushed past, but the man with a quick and
frightened movement of agility uncommon in one of his age and bulk put
himself in the way.
"Please, sir!" he begged. "If I was to permit that, sir, it might cost
me my position."
"Well--"
P. Sybarite drew back, relenting.
But at this juncture, from a point directly over their heads, the
voice of Brian Shaynon himself interrupted them.
"Who is that, Soames?" he called impatiently, without making himself
immediately visible. "Has Mr. Bayard returned?"
"No, sir," the butler called, distressed. "It's--it's a person,
sir--insists on seein' you--says 'is nime's Nemmysis."
"_What!_"
"He has it right--Nemesis," P. Sybarite replied incisively. "And you
may as well see me now, whether you want to or not. Sooner or later
you'll have to!"
There was a sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the upper landing,
and Brian Shaynon showed himself at the head of the stairs; now
without his furred great-coat, but still in the evening dress of
elderly Respectability--Respectability sadly rumpled and maltreated,
the white shield of his bosom no longer lustrous and immaculate, his
tie twisted wildly beneath one ear, his collar unbuttoned, as though
wrenched from its fastenings in a moment of fury. These things apart,
he had within the hour aged ten years in the flesh: gone the proud
flush of his bewhiskered gills, in its place leaden pallor; and gone
the quick, choleric fire from eyes now smouldering, dull and all but
lifeless....
He stood peering down, with an obvious lack of recognition that hinted
at failing sight.
"I don't seem to know you," he said slowly, with a weary shake of his
head; "and it's most inopportune--the hour. I fear you must excuse
me."
"That can't be," P. Sybarite returned. "I've business with
you--important. Perhaps you didn't catch the name I gave your
butler--Nemesis."
"Nemesis?" Shaynon repeated vacantly. He staggered and descended a
step before a groping hand checked him on the baluster-rail. "Nemesis!
Is this an untimely joke of some sort, sir?"
His accents quavered querulously; and P. Sybarite with a flash of
scorn put his unnatural condition down to drink.
"Far from it," he retorted ruthlessly. "The cat's out, my friend--your
bag lean and flapping emptiness! What," he demanded sternly--"what
have you done with Marian Blessington?"
"Mar--Marian?" the old voice iterated. "Why, she"--the man pulled
himself together with a determined effort--"she's in her room, of
course. Where should she be?"
"Is that true?" P. Sybarite demanded of the butler in a manner so
peremptory that the truth slipped out before the fellow realised it.
"Miss Marian 'asn't returned as yet from the ball," he whispered.
"'E--'e's not quite 'imself, sir. 'E's 'ad a bit of a shock, as one
might s'y. I'd go easy on 'im, if you'll take a word from me."
But P. Sybarite traversed his advice without an instant's
consideration.
"Brian Shaynon," he called, "you lie! The police have caught Red
November; they'll worm the truth out of him within twenty minutes, if
I don't get it from you now. The game's up. Come! What have you done
with the girl?"
For all answer, a low cry, like the plaint of a broken-hearted child,
issued from the leaden, writhen lips of the old man.
And while he stared in wonder, Brian Shaynon seemed suddenly to lose
the strength of his limbs. His legs shook beneath him as with a palsy;
and then, knees buckling, he tottered and plunged headlong from top to
bottom of the staircase.