Briefly he meditated upon this curious freak of _Kismet_ that was
linking his fortunes of the night with those of the man with the
twisted mouth.

"Now you know the lay of the land--how about helping me out?"

Now the trail of the man with the twisted mouth promised fair to lead
to Molly Lessing. P. Sybarite didn't linger on his decision.

"I'm awf'ly impressionable," he conceded with a sigh; "some day, I'm
afraid, it'll get me in a peck of trouble."

"I can count on you, then?"

"Short of trying a 'prentice hand at assassination--"

"Don't be an ass. I only want to protect myself. Besides, you can't
refuse. Consider how lenient I've been with you."

P. Sybarite lifted questioning eyebrows, and dragged down the corners
of a dubious mouth.

"If I wanted to be nasty," Mrs. Inche explained, "you'd be on your way
now to a cell in the East Fifty-first Street station. But I was
grateful."

"The Saints be praised for that!" exclaimed the little man fervently.
"What's it for?"

"For waking me up in time to prevent my murder in my sleep," she
returned coolly; "and also for being the spunky little devil you are
and chasing off that hound of a husband of mine. If it wasn't for you,
he'd've got me sure. Or else," she amended, "I'd've got him; which
would have been almost as unpleasant--what with being pinched and
tried and having juries disagree and getting off at last only on the
plea of insanity--and all that."

"Madam," said P. Sybarite, rising, "the more I see of you, the more
you claim my admiration. I entreat you, permit me to go away before my
emotion deepens into disastrous infatuation."

"Sit down," countered Mrs. Inche amiably; "don't be afraid--I don't
bite. Now you know who I am, but before you go, I mean to know who you
are."

"Michael Monahan, madam." This was the first alliterative combination
to pop into his optimistic mind.

"Can that," retorted the lady serenely--"solder it up tight, along
with the business of pretending to be a cop. It won't get you
anything. I've a proposition to make to you."

"But, madam," he declared with his naif and disarming grin--"believe
me--my young affections are already engaged."

"You're not half the imbecile you make yourself out," she judged
soberly. "Come--what's your name?"

Taking thought, he saw no great danger in being truthful for once.

"P., unfortunately, Sybarite," he said: "bookkeeper for Whigham and
Wimper--leather merchants, Frankfort Street."