of the house. Get me?"
P. Sybarite drew a long breath. If this were all that Shaynon could
have trumped up to discomfit him--! He looked that one over with the
curling lip of contempt.
"I believe it's no crime to enter where you've not been invited,
provided you don't force door or window to do it," he observed.
"You admit--eh?" the manager broke in excitedly--"you have no card of
invitation, what?"
"I freely admit I have no card of invitation what or whatever."
"Then perhaps you'll explain whatcha doing here," suggested the
detective, not without affability.
"Willingly: I came to find a friend--a lady whose name I don't care to
bring into this discussion--unless Mr. Shaynon has forestalled me."
"Mr. Shaynon has mentioned a lady's name," said the manager with a
significance lost upon P. Sybarite.
"That," he commented acidly, "is much what might have been expected
of"--here he lifted his shoulders with admirable insolence--"Mr.
Shaynon."
"You saw this lady, then?" the detective put in sharply.
"Why--yes," P. Sybarite admitted.
"He not only saw her," Shaynon interpolated with a malicious sneer,
"but I saw him see her--and saw him get away with it."
"Get away with--what?" P. Sybarite asked blankly.
"Mr. Shaynon," drawled the detective, "says he saw you lift a di'mond
brooch off'n Mrs. Addison Strone, while you was in the elevator."
And while P.
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