"
"Very well," said P. Sybarite, boiling with rage beneath thin ice of
submission.
His shoulder free, he moved forward with a high chin and a challenge
in his eye for any that dared question his burning face--marched up
the steps through ranks that receded as if to escape pollution, and so
re-entered the lobby.
"Straight ahead," admonished his captor, falling in at his side.
"First door to the right of the elevators."
Shoulder to shoulder, the target for two-score grinning or surprised
stares, they strode across the lobby and through the designated door.
It was immediately closed; and the key, turned in the lock, was
removed and pocketed by the detective.
In this room--a small interior apartment, plainly furnished as a
private office--two people were waiting: a stout, smooth little man
with a moustache of foreign extraction, who on better acquaintance
proved to be the manager of the establishment; the other Bayard
Shaynon, stationed with commendable caution on the far side of the
room, the bulk of a broad, flat-topped mahogany desk fencing him off
from the wrathful little captive.
"Well?" this last demanded of the detective the moment they were
private.
"Take it calm', son, take it calm'," counselled the man, his tone not
altogether lacking in good-nature. "There seems to be some question as
to your right to attend that party upstairs; we got to investigate
you, for the sake of the rep.
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