Sybarite's mouth relaxed; he smiled faintly, almost
placatingly.
"Well, old top!" he cried with malicious cordiality. "Who'd think to
meet _you_ here! What's the matter? Has high finance turned too risky
for your stomach? Or are you dabbling in low-life for the sheer fun of
it--to titillate your jaded senses?"
Respectability's cheeks puffed out like red toy balloons; so likewise
his chest.
"Sir!" he snorted--"you are drunk!"
"Sir!" retorted P. Sybarite, none too meekly--"you lie."
The ebony-and-gold cane of Respectability quivered in mid-air.
"Out of my way!"
"Put down that cane, Mr. Brian Shaynon," said P. Sybarite peaceably,
"unless you want me to play horse with you in a way to let all New
York know how you spend the wee sma' hours!"
At the mention of his name Respectability stiffened in dismay.
"Damnation!" he cried hoarsely. "Who are you?"
"Why, have you forgotten me? Careless of you, Mr. Shaynon. I'm the
little guy that put the speck in Respectability: I'm the noisy little
skeleton in the cupboard of your conscience. Don't you know me now?"
With a gasp (prudently lowering his stick) Mr. Shaynon bent to peer
into the face exposed as P. Sybarite pushed back his hat; stared an
instant, goggling; wheeled about, and flung heavily toward his
taxicab.
"The Bizarre!" wheezed he to the chauffeur; and dodging in, banged the
door.
As for P.
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