"
"Because," said P. Sybarite quietly, "I'm going down there and break
in as soon as I'm dressed fit to go to jail."
"In the sacred name of Insanity--!"
"If he's out, I'll steal that telegram and find out whether it has any
bearing on the case. If it hasn't, I'll sift every inch of the room
for a suspicion of a leading clue."
"But if he's in--?"
"I'll take my chances," said P. Sybarite with grim brevity.
"Unarmed?"
"Not if I know the nature of the brute." He stood up, fully dressed
but for his shoes. "Now--my gun, please."
"Top drawer of the buffet there. How are you going? Fire escape?"
"Where is it?" P. Sybarite asked as he possessed himself of his
weapon.
"Half a minute." Peter Kenny held out his hand. "Let's have a look at
that gun--will you?"
"What for?"
"One of those newfangled automatic pistols--isn't it? I 've never seen
one before."
"But--Great Scott!--you've had this here--"
"I know, but I didn't pay much attention--thinking of other things--"
"But you're delaying me--"
"Mean to," said Peter Kenny purposefully; and without giving P.
Sybarite the least hint of his intention, suddenly imprisoned his
wrist, grabbed the weapon by the barrel, and took it to himself--with
the greater ease since the other neither understood nor attempted
resistance.
"What in blazes--?" he enquired, puzzled, watching Peter turn the
weapon over curiously in his hands.
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