Do you follow me?"
"As far as the alibi."
"Oh, that's quite simple. We don't live together, and he's in
sure-enough society, and I'm not. To-night the annual Hadley-Owen
post-lenten masquerade's in full swing just around the corner, and
friend husband's there with the rest of the haughty bunch. Can't you
see how easy it would be for him to drop round here between dances,
murder his lawful wedded wife, and beat it back, without his absence
ever being noticed?"
"It does sound feasible, if--ah--sickening," P. Sybarite admitted.
"But really, it's hard to believe. Are you positive--?"
"I tell you," said the woman impatiently, "I recognised him; I saw his
mouth--his mask wouldn't hide that--and knew him instantly."
P. Sybarite was silent: he, too, had recognized that mouth.
Briefly he meditated upon this curious freak of _Kismet_ that was
linking his fortunes of the night with those of the man with the
twisted mouth.
"Now you know the lay of the land--how about helping me out?"
Now the trail of the man with the twisted mouth promised fair to lead
to Molly Lessing. P. Sybarite didn't linger on his decision.
"I'm awf'ly impressionable," he conceded with a sigh; "some day, I'm
afraid, it'll get me in a peck of trouble."
"I can count on you, then?"
"Short of trying a 'prentice hand at assassination--"
"Don't be an ass. I only want to protect myself.
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