"Well?" he snapped at the intruder.

An impatient gesture of a hand immaculately gloved in white abolished
him completely--as far, at least, as the other was concerned.

"Ah--Miss Lessing, I believe?"

The voice was strong and musical but poisoned with a malicious triumph
that grated upon the nerves of P. Sybarite; he declined to be
abolished.

"Say the word," he suggested serenely to the girl, "and I'll bundle
this animal back into that taxi and direct the driver to the nearest
accident ward. I'd rather like to, really."

"Get rid of this microbe," interrupted the other savagely--"unless you
want him buried between glass slides under a microscope."

The girl turned to P. Sybarite with pleading eyes and imploring hands.

"If you please, dear Mr. Sybarite," she begged in a tremulous voice:
"I'm afraid I must speak alone with this"--there was a barely
perceptible pause--gentleman. If you won't mind waiting a moment--at
the door--?"

"If it pleases you, Miss Lessing--most certainly." He drew back a step
or two. "But speaking of microbes," he added incisively, "a word of
advice: don't tease 'em. My bite is deadly: neither Pasteur nor your
family veterinary could save you."