ting bravely a hundred feet to the rear, and as he
watched, both turned the northern corner and vanished like shapes of
dream.

Sighing, P. Sybarite went back to the stoop and sat down to consider
the state of his soul (which was vain-glorious) and the condition of
the hat (which was soiled, rumpled, and disreputable).

VIII

WHEELS OF CHANCE

Turning the affair over in his mind, and considering it from every
imaginable angle, P. Sybarite decided (fairly enough) that it was, on
the whole, mysterious; lending at least some colour of likelihood to
George's gratuitous guess-work.

Certainly it would seem that one had now every right to assume Miss
Molly Lessing to be other than as she chose to seem; nowadays the
villain in shining evening dress doesn't pursue the shrinking
shop-girl save through the action of the obsolescent mellerdrammer or
of the ubiquitous moving-picture reel. So much must at least be said
for these great educators: they have broken the villain of his
open-face attire; to-day he knows better, and when prowling to devour,
disguises himself in the guileless if nobby "sack suit" of the widely
advertised Kollege Kut brand....

In short, Molly Lessing might very well be Marian Blessington, after
all!

In which case the man with the twisted mouth was, more probably than
not, none other than that same Bayard Shaynon whom the young lady was
reported to have jilted so arbitrarily.

Turning the topper over in his hands, it occurred to P. Sybarite to
wonder if he did not, in it, hold a valuable clue to this riddle of
identity. Promptly he took the hat indoors to find out, investigating
it most thoroughly by the flickering, bluish glare of the lonely
gas-jet that burned in the hallway.

It was a handsome and heavy hat of English manufacture, as witness the
name of a Bond Street hatter in its crown; by the slight
discolouration of its leather, had seen service without, however,
depreciating in utility, needing only brushing and ironing to restore
its pristine brilliance; carried neither name nor initials on its
lining; and lacked every least hint as to its ownership--or so it
seemed until the prying fingers of P. Sybarite turned down the leather
and permitted a visiting card concealed therein to flutter to the
floor.

The hall rack was convenient; hanging up the hat, P. Sybarite picked
up the card. It displayed in conventional script the name, _Bailey
Penfield_, with the address, _97 West 45th