'E nearly emptied the decanter, too, before Mr. Bayard
got 'ere. And the minute they come together, it was 'ammer-and-tongs.
'Ot _and_ 'eavy they 'ad it for upwards of an _hour_, be'ind closed
doors, sime as like with the lidy. But w'en Mr. Bayard, 'e come to go,
sir, the old gent follows 'im to the landin'--just where 'e was when
he spoke to you, sir, before 'e 'ad the stroke--and 'e says to 'im,
says 'e: 'Remember, I cawst you off. Don't come to me for nothin'
after this. Don't ever you darken my doorstep ag'in,' 'e says. And Mr.
Bayard, sir, 'e ups and laughs fiendish in 'is own father's fice.
'You've got another guess comin',' he mocks 'im open': 'you're in this
business as deep as me,' 'e says, 'and if you cross me, I'll
double-cross you, s'elp me Gawd, and in the newspapers, too.' And with
that, out 'e went in a rige."
"So that was the way of it!" P. Sybarite commented dully.
So Mrs. Inche had sought the father to revenge herself upon the son;
and with this outcome--Bayard unharmed, his father dead!...
"That was hexactly 'ow it 'appened, sir," affirmed the butler, rubbing
his fat old hands.
"You 're wasting time. Go telephone the doctor," said P. Sybarite
suddenly.
"Right you are, sir. But there's no real 'urry. He's dead as Guy
Fawkes, and no doctor livin'--"
"Nevertheless, telephone--if you don't want to get into trouble."
"Quite right, sir.
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