Sybarite to
make an amazing discovery: the man was not Bayard Shaynon.
In silhouette against the light, his slight and supple form was
unmistakable to one who had seen it before, even though his face was
disfigured by a scant black visor across his eyes and the bridge of
his nose.
He was Red November.
[Illustration: He was Red November.]
What P. Sybarite would have done had he been armed is problematical.
What he did was remain moveless, even as he was breathless and
powerless, but for his naked hands, either for offence or defence. For
that November was armed was as unquestionable as his mastery of the
long-barrelled revolver of blue steel (favoured by gunmen of the
underworld) which he held at poise all the while he carefully surveyed
his line of retreat.
At length, releasing the curtain, the gang leader hopped lightly out
upon the grating, and disappeared.
In another breath P. Sybarite himself was at the window. A single
glance through the curtains showed the grating untenanted; and boldly
poking his head forth, he looked down to see the figure of the gunman,
foreshortened unrecognisably, moving down the iron tangle already
several flights below, singularly resembling a spider in some
extraordinary web.
Incontinently, the little man ran back through the dining-room and
down the private hall, abandoning every effort to avoid a noise.
No need now for caution, if his premonition wasn't worthless--if the
vengeful spirit of Mrs.
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