Here was mystery within mystery, indeed! The circumstances annoyed P.
Sybarite intensely. And why (he asked himself, with impatience) need
he remain outside when another entered without let or hindrance?
Upon this thought he turned boldly up the steps, pressed the
bell-button; laid hold of the door-knob, and entered into a vestibule
as dark as his bewilderment and as empty as the palm of his hand;
proving that the young gentleman of fashion had experienced no
difficulty in penetrating farther into fastnesses of this singular
establishment. And reflecting that where one had gone, another might
follow, P. Sybarite pulled the door to behind him.
Instantly the bare and narrow vestibule was flooded with the merciless
glare of half a dozen electric bulbs; and at the same time he found
himself sustaining the intent scrutiny of a pair of inhospitable dark
eyes set in an impassive dark face--this last abruptly disclosed in
the frame of a small grille in one of the inner doors.
Though far too dumfounded for speech, he contrived to return the stare
with aggressive interest, and to such effect that he presently wore
through the patience of the other.
"Well?" he was gruffly asked.
"The Saints be praised!" returned P. Sybarite. "I find myself so. And
yourself?" he added civilly: not to be outdone, as the saying is.
"What do you want?"
Irritating discourtesy inhered in the speaker's tone.
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