Though far too dumfounded for speech, he contrived to return the stare
with aggressive interest, and to such effect that he presently wore
through the patience of the other.

"Well?" he was gruffly asked.

"The Saints be praised!" returned P. Sybarite. "I find myself so. And
yourself?" he added civilly: not to be outdone, as the saying is.

"What do you want?"

Irritating discourtesy inhered in the speaker's tone. P. Sybarite
stiffened his neck.

"To see Mr. Penfield," he returned firmly--"of course!"

"What Mr. Penfield?" asked the other, after a pause so transient that
it was little more than distinguishable, but which to P. Sybarite
indicated beyond question that at least one Mr. Penfield was known to
his cautious interlocutor.

"Mr. Bailey Penfield," he replied. "Who else?"

During a pause slightly longer than the first, the hostile and
suspicious eyes summed him up a second time.

"No such party here," was the verdict. The man drew back and made as
if to shut the grille.

"Nonsense!" P. Sybarite insisted sharply. "I have his card with this