(trimming collar and cuffs to a degree of uncommon nicety) and resumed
his coat (brushing and hating it simultaneously and with equal
ferocity, for its very shabbiness) P. Sybarite sought out a pipe old
and disreputable enough to be a comfort to any man, and sat down by
the one window of his room (top floor, hall, back) to smoke and
consider the state of the universe while awaiting the dinner gong.

The window commanded an elevated if non-exhilarating view of back
yards, one and all dank, dismal, and littered with the débris of a
long, hard winter. Familiarity, however, had rendered P. Sybarite
immune to the miasma of melancholy they exhaled; the trouble in his
patient blue eyes, the wrinkles that lined his forehead, owned another
cause.

In fact, George had wrought more disastrously upon his temper than P.
Sybarite had let him see. His hints, innuendoes, and downright
assertions had in reality distilled a subtle poison into the little
man's humour. For in spite of his embattled incredulity and the clear
reasoning with which he had overborne George's futile insistence,
there still lingered in his mind (and always would, until he knew the
truth himself) a carking doubt.

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps George had guessed shrewdly. Perhaps
Molly Lessing of the glove counter really was one and the same with
Marian Blessington of the fabulous fortune.

Old Brian Shaynon was a known devil of infinite astuteness; it would
be quite consistent with his character and past performances if,
despairing of gaining control of his ward's money by urging her into
unwelcome matrimony with his son, he had contrived to over-reach her