I say!" the boy
exclaimed excitedly--"what business could he have had with Red
November there, to-night?"
"That _is_ a question," P. Sybarite allowed.
"Something urgent, I'll be bound!--else he wouldn't ever have dared
show his bare map in that dump."
"One would think so...."
"I'd like to figure this thing out. Perhaps you can help. To begin
with--I went to a party to-night."
"I know," said P. Sybarite, with a quiet chuckle: "the Hadley-Owen
masquerade."
"How did you know?"
"_Kismet!_ It had to be."
"Are you by any chance--mad?"
"I shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, I'm a bit mad I wasn't invited.
Everybody I know or meet--almost--is either bidden to that party or
knows somebody who is. Forgive the interruption.... Anyway," he added,
"we're here."
The taxicab was drawing up before an apartment house entrance.
Hastily recovering his hoard of gold-pieces, P. Sybarite jumped out
and presented one to the driver.
"Can't change that," said the latter, staring. "Besides, this was a
charge call."
"I know," said P. Sybarite apologetically; "but this is for you."
"Good God!" cried the chauffeur.
"And yet," mused P. Sybarite, "they'd have you believe all taxicab
chauffeurs mercenary!"
Recklessly he forced the money into the man's not altogether
inhospitable palm.
"For being a good little tight-mouth," he explained gravely.
"Forever and ever, amen!" protested the latter fervently.
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