...
The public hall was empty, dim with the light of a single electric
bulb, and still as the chamber of death that lay behind.
Never a shadow moved more silently or more swiftly than P. Sybarite,
when he had closed the door, up the steps to Peter Kenny's rooms.
Hardly a conceivable sound could be more circumspect than that which
his knuckles drummed on the panels of Peter's door. And Peter earned a
heartfelt, instant, and ungrudged blessing by opening without delay.
"Well?" he asked, when P. Sybarite--with a gesture enforcing temporary
silence--had himself shut the door without making a sound. "Good Lord,
man! You look as if you'd seen a ghost."
On the verge of agitated speech P. Sybarite checked to shake an
aggrieved head.
"Bromides are grand for the nerves," he observed cuttingly, "but
you're too young to need 'em--and I want none now.... Listen to me."
Briefly he told his story.
"Well, but the telegram?" Peter insisted. "Does it help--tell you
anything? It's maddening--to think Marian may be in the power of that
bloodthirsty--!"
"There you go again!" P. Sybarite complained--"and not two minutes ago
I warned you about that habit. Wait: I've had time only to run an eye
through this: let me get the sense of it."
Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message in
silence:
BAYARD SHAYNON
Monastery Apts., W. 43rd, N.Y.C.
Your wire received all preparations made send patient in charge as
indicated at convenience legal formalities can wait as you suggest.
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