At all of its wide, old-style windows, ruffled shades of
straw-coloured silk were drawn. One sign alone held out any promise
that all within were not deep in slumber: the outer front doors were
not closed. Upon the frosted glass panels of the inner doors a dim
light cast a sickly yellow stain.
Laying hold of an obsolete bell-pull, P. Sybarite yanked it with a
spirit in tune with his temper. Immediately, and considerably to his
surprise, the doors were thrown open and on the threshold a butler
showed him a face of age, grey with the strain of a sleepless night,
and drawn and set with bleary eyes.
"Mr. Shaynon?" the little man demanded sharply.
"W'ich Mr. Shaynon, sir?" enquired the butler, too weary to betray
surprise--did he feel any--at this ill-timed call.
"Either--I don't care which."
"Mr. Bayard Shaynon 'as just left--not five minutes ago, sir."
"Left for where?"
"His apartments, I presume, sir."
"Then I'll see Mr. Brian Shaynon."
The butler's body filled the doorway. Nor did he offer to budge.
"I'm afraid, sir, Mr. Shaynon is 'ardly likely to see any one at this
hour."
"He'll see me," replied P. Sybarite grimly. "He hasn't gone to bed, I
gather?"
"Not yet, sir; but 'e's goin' immediate'."
"Very well. You may as well let me in."
Suspicious but impressed, the servant shuffled aside, and P. Sybarite
brushed past him into the hallway.
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