an
of, say, well-preserved sixty, with a blowsy plump face and fat white
side-whiskers, a fleshy nose and arrogant eyes, a double chin and a
heavy paunch; one who, in brief, had no business in that galley at
that or any other hour of day or night, and who knew it and knew that
others (worse luck!) would know it at sight.

All this P. Sybarite comprehended in a glance and, comprehending,
bristled like a truculent game-cock or the faithful hound in the
ghost-story. The aspect of Respectability seemed to have upon him the
effect of a violent irritant; his eyes took on a hot, hard look, his
lips narrowed to a thin, inflexible crease, and his hands
unconsciously closed.

And as Respectability strode across the sidewalk, obviously intending
to bury himself in the body of his waiting cab as quickly as possible,
P. Sybarite--with the impudence of a tug blocking the fairway for an
ocean liner--stepped in his path, dropped a shoulder, and planted both
feet firmly.

Immediately the two came together; the shoulder of P. Sybarite in the
paunch of Respectability, evoking a deep grunt of choleric surprise
and bringing the gentleman to an abrupt standstill.

Upon this, P. Sybarite's mouth relaxed; he smiled faintly, almost
placatingly.

"Well, old top!" he cried with malicious cordiality. "Who'd think to
meet _you_ here! What's the matter? Has high finance turned too risky
for your stomach? Or are you dabbling in low-life for the sheer fun of
it--to titillate your jaded senses?"

Respectability's cheeks puffed out like red toy balloons; so likewise
his chest.

"Sir!" he snorted--"you are drunk!"

"Sir!" retorted P. Sybarite, none too meekly--"you lie."

The ebony-and-gold cane of Respectability quivered in mid-air.

"Out of my way!"

"Put down that cane, Mr. Brian Shaynon," said P. Sybarite peaceably,
"unless you want me to play horse with you in a way to let all New
York know how you spend the wee sma' hours!"

At the mention of his name Respectability stiffened in dismay.

"Damnation!" he cried hoarsely. "Who are you?"

"Why, have you forgotten me? Careless of you, Mr. Shaynon. I'm the
little guy that put the speck in Respectability: I'm the noisy little
skeleton in the cupboard of your conscience. Don't you know me now?"

With a gasp (prudently lowering his stick) Mr. Shaynon bent to peer
into the face exposed as P. Sybarite pushed back his hat; stared an
instant, goggling; wheeled about, and flung heavily toward