"
"Nemesis?" Shaynon repeated vacantly. He staggered and descended a
step before a groping hand checked him on the baluster-rail. "Nemesis!
Is this an untimely joke of some sort, sir?"
His accents quavered querulously; and P. Sybarite with a flash of
scorn put his unnatural condition down to drink.
"Far from it," he retorted ruthlessly. "The cat's out, my friend--your
bag lean and flapping emptiness! What," he demanded sternly--"what
have you done with Marian Blessington?"
"Mar--Marian?" the old voice iterated. "Why, she"--the man pulled
himself together with a determined effort--"she's in her room, of
course. Where should she be?"
"Is that true?" P. Sybarite demanded of the butler in a manner so
peremptory that the truth slipped out before the fellow realised it.
"Miss Marian 'asn't returned as yet from the ball," he whispered.
"'E--'e's not quite 'imself, sir. 'E's 'ad a bit of a shock, as one
might s'y. I'd go easy on 'im, if you'll take a word from me."
But P. Sybarite traversed his advice without an instant's
consideration.
"Brian Shaynon," he called, "you lie! The police have caught Red
November; they'll worm the truth out of him within twenty minutes, if
I don't get it from you now. The game's up. Come! What have you done
with the girl?"
For all answer, a low cry, like the plaint of a broken-hearted child,
issued from the leaden, writhen lips of the old man.
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