"And thank
_you_!"
"If you're satisfied, we're quits," returned P. Sybarite, offering a
hand to the boy.
"I can manage," protested this last, descending without assistance.
"And it's better so," he explained as they crossed to the door; "I
don't want the hallboys here to suspect--and I can hold up a few
minutes longer, never fear."
"Business of taking off my hat to you," said P. Sybarite in unfeigned
admiration; "for pure grit, you're a young wonder."
A liveried hallboy opened the door. A second waited in the elevator.
Promptly ascending, they were set down at one of the upper floors.
Throughout the boy carried himself with never a quiver, his
countenance composed and betraying what pain he suffered only to eyes
keen to discern its trace of pallor. Now as he left the elevator and
fitted a key to the lock of his private front door, he addressed the
attendant, over his shoulder, in a manner admirably casual:
"By the way, Jimmy--"
"Sir?"
"Call up Dr. Higgins for me."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him I've an attack of indigestion and will be glad if he'll turn
out and see if he can't fix me up for the night."
"Very good, Mr. Kenny."
The gate clanged and the cage dropped from sight as Mr. Kenny opened
the door and stood aside to let P. Sybarite precede him.
"Rot!" objected the little man forcibly. "Go in and turn up the
lights. Punctilio from a man in your condition--!"
The boy nodded wearily, passed in, and switched up the lights in a
comfortably furnished sitting-room.
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