"Where is he?"
"If you'll give me your nime, sir, I'll tell him you're 'ere."
P. Sybarite hesitated. He was in anything but the mood for joking, yet
a certain dour humour in the jest caught his fancy and persuaded him
against his better judgment.
"Nemesis," he said briefly.
"Mr.--name--what? Beg pardon, sir!"
"Nem-e-sis," P. Sybarite articulated distinctly. "And don't Mister it.
He'll understand."
"Thenk you," muttered the servant blankly; and turned.
"If he doesn't--tell him it's the gentleman who was not masked at the
Bizarre to-night."
"Very good, sir."
The man moved off toward the foot of a broad, shallow staircase at the
back of the hall.
On impulse, P. Sybarite strode after him.
"On second thoughts, you needn't announce me. I'll go up with you."
"I'm afraid I can't permit that, sir," observed the butler, horrified.
"Afraid you'll have to."
And P. Sybarite would have pushed past, but the man with a quick and
frightened movement of agility uncommon in one of his age and bulk put
himself in the way.
"Please, sir!" he begged. "If I was to permit that, sir, it might cost
me my position."
"Well--"
P. Sybarite drew back, relenting.
But at this juncture, from a point directly over their heads, the
voice of Brian Shaynon himself interrupted them.
"Who is that, Soames?" he called impatiently, without making himself
immediately visible.
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