But it was ordered so; Peter was quick to answer the door; and P.
Sybarite, pulling himself together (now that he had audience critical
of his demeanour) walked in with a very tolerable swagger--with a
careless, good-humoured nod for his host and a quick look round the
room to make certain they were alone.
"Doctor been?"
"Oh--an hour ago."
"And--?"
"Says I'm all right if blood-poisoning doesn't set in."
Shutting the door, Peter grinned not altogether happily. "That's one
of the most fetching features of the new code of medical ethics, you
know--complete confidence inspired in patient by utter frankness on
doctor's part--and all that!...
"'An insignificant puncture,'" he mimicked: "'you'll be right as rain
in a week--unless the wound decides to gangrene--it's apt to, all on
its own, 'spite of anything we can do--in which case we'll have to
amputate your body to prevent infection spreading to your head.'...
"Well?" he wound up almost gaily. "What luck?"
"The worst. Where are my rags? I've got to change and run. Also--while
you're up"--Peter had just dropped into a chair--"you might be good
enough to mix me a Scotch and soda."
Whereupon, while changing his clothes, and between breaths and gulps
of whiskey-and-water, P. Sybarite delivered himself of an abbreviated
summary of what had happened at the ball and after.
"But why," he wound up peevishly--"_why_ didn't you tell me Bayard
Shaynon lived in the flat below you?"
"Didn't occur to me; and if you ask me, I don't see why it should
interest you now.
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