hours. I am going to leave you for the while, as I wish to investigate a
certain yacht which is moored in the East River. That yacht is there for
a purpose--you remember his reference to the payment of supplies for
a two-month cruise. My amateurish vanity leads me to a hope that I can
capture him just at the crucial moment when he thinks he is successful
in his escape from pursuit."

"That is the childishness of the masculine mind," retorted Helene. "You
say we women are illogical, but we are essentially practical in the
small things. I would advise closing the doors before the horse escapes,
rather than a chase from behind!"

"Perhaps," answered Monty, "but the uncertainty does allure me. I always
enjoyed skating on thin ice, from the days of college when I loved to
get through a course of lectures on as little work as possible. The
satisfaction of 'getting away with it' against odds was so exhilarating.
I will return after my little dinner with Warren at the Club. Where will
you dine?"

"Your friend Dick Holloway is taking me to some restaurant where singing
and music may alter my refusal to him."

"Your refusal?" and Shirley shot a quick glance at the girl. Her dimples
appeared as she added: "Yes--he wants me to star in a little play for
the coming spring, but I have had such fun playing in real-life drama
that I said him nay."

"Oh," was all the criminologist said, but as he left, Helene's laugh
interpretated a little feminine satisfaction. Monty's mind was just
disturbed enough about the attitude of Dick Holloway to keep him from
worrying over the Warren case until he had reached the East River, near
the yacht club mooring.

There was the white yacht which had been mentioned in the purloined
book. It was a trim, speedy craft. The criminologist walked down a few
blocks to the office of a boat contractor with whom he had dealt on
bygone occasions.

"I want to engage a fast motor-boat, Mr. Manby," was his request. "The
speediest thing you've got. Keep it down at your dock, at Twenty-first
Street, with plenty of gasoline and a man on duty all the time, starting
with six o'clock to-night. I may need it at a minute's notice."

"I've got a hydroplane which I'll sell this spring to some yachtsman,"
said Manby. "It's a bargain--you can do forty miles an hour in it,
without getting a drop of spray. Shall I show it to you?"

"Yes, and the two men who you will have alternating on duty, so they
will know me when I come for it. I'll pay for every minute it is
reserved."

They soon came to terms; the men were introduced and Shirley was well
satisfied with the racing craft, which was moored according to his
directions, handy for a quick embarkation.

Then he went up to the Holland Agency. Cronin was disappointed in
his results with the telephone confederate. All of Warren's men were
close-mouthed, as though through some biting fear of swift and unerring
vengeance for "squealing." Even the prisoners in the station-house had
not volunteered to communicate with friends, as they were allowed to
do by law. They were "standing pat," as the old detective declared in
disgust.

"That proves one thing," remarked the criminologist. "They are not local
products, or they would have friends other than their chief on whom to
call for bail or aid. Their whole work centers on him. I think I will
send a code message to this man Phil this afternoon or evening. He may
be able to read it, and if he does, it may assist us. I wish you would
have a man call on Miss Marigold at the California Hotel, so that she
may know his face. Then keep him covering her for they are apt to get
suspicious of her and try to quiet her. She is a game and fearless girl,
but she is no match for this gang."

Cronin assigned one of the men immediately, and the sleuth took up a
note of introduction to Helene, in which Monty explained the need for
his watch.

Shirley then repaired to the club house to await his dinner guest. He
was thoughtful about the alacrity of Warren to dine with him. There was
more to this assumed friendliness than the mere desire to talk to him.

"I wonder if he wants to keep me occupied for some certain reason?"
pondered the club man. "Helene is protected now by a silent watcher. The
members of the Lobster Club are all out of the city. Van Cleft is safe
on the ocean. They must be laying a trap. I wonder where that trap would
be?"

As he looked about his rooms he realized that many important pieces of
evidence were locked up in his chests and the small safe. His bedroom,
in the uppermost floor of the club building, was in a quiet and less
frequented part of the house. Shirley summoned one of the shrewd
Japanese valets who worked on the dormitory floors of the building.

"Chen," he began. "Are you a good fighter?"

The Mongolian grinned characteristically. Shirley took out a bill, and
handed it to the little fellow.

"I have reason to think some one may come into my rooms to-night, while
I am busy downstairs. How would you like to lock yourself on the inside
of my clothes closet, and wait? The air is not very good, but with this
ten dollars you could take a nice ride in the country to-morrow, and get
lots of good oxygen in your lungs to make up for it."

Chen was a willing little self-jailer. Shirley handed him his own
revolver, and the slant eyes sparkled with glee at the opportunity for
some excitement. Americans may carp at the curious manners and alleged
shortcomings of the Oriental, but personal fear does not seem to be in
the category of their faults. So, with this little valet, who improved
his time, as Shirley had discovered, by taking special courses in
Columbia University's scientific department. The criminologist had used
him on more than one occasion when Eastern subtlety and apparent lack of
guile had accomplished the impossible!

The closet door was closed, and Shirley went downstairs. At the desk of
the, club clerk he sent a cablegram to the police authorities of Paris.
The message was simple

"Cable collect to Holland Detective Agency name and record of man in
Montfleury case, August, 1914. Do you want him?................. Cronin,
Captain."

Shirley smiled as he handed the envelope to the little messenger who had
been summoned, and made his exit through the front doorway just as the
affable Reginald Warren entered it: another instance of "ships that pass
in the night," was the thought of the host who advanced courteously.

"You are on time to the minute: German training, I see. Let the boy have
your hat and coat, Mr. Warren."

These little amenities completed, they sauntered about the beautiful
building, Shirley pointing out the many interesting photographs of
athletic teams, trophies, club posters, portraits of famous graduates,
and the like, which seem part and parcel of collegiate atmosphere.
Warren was profoundly interested, yet there was an abstraction in his
conversation which was not unobserved by his entertainer. As they passed
a tall, colonial clock in the broad hallway, Shirley caught him glancing
uneasily at it. This was the second time he had looked at its silvered
face since they came into the range of it. Purposely the club man took
him down the length of the big dining-hall, to exhibit the trophies of
the hunt, from jungles and polar regions, contributed by the sportsmen
members of past classes. Here Shirley chatted about this and that boar's
head, yonder elephant hide, the other tiger skin, until he had consumed
additional time. As they passed into the lounging room Shirley led his
guest past another small mahogany clock. Again the sharp, anxious
glance at the progress of the minutes. He was convinced by now that some
deviltry was being perfected on schedule time. He began to worry over
his little assistant on the floor high above: perhaps he would not be
able to cope with the plotters, after all. Yet, Chen was wiry, cunning,
and needed no diagrams as to the purpose for which he was to guard the
rooms.

At last Shirley led Warren to the grill-room where they ordered their
dinner: the supreme test of a gentleman is his taste in the menu for a
discriminating guest. Warren sensed this, as the delicious viands and
rare old wines were brought out in a combination which would have warmed
the heart cockles of the fussiest old gourmon from Goutville!

"Ah, a feast fit for the gods," were his admiring words, as the two men
smiled across this strange board of hospitality. In the midst of
the meal, their chat of student days was interrupted by a page who
approached Shirley.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I have a note which was left here by
messenger for a gentleman named Mr. R. Warren; your guest, I believe,
sir?"

Warren's face flushed, and his surprise was indubitable. He snatched
the envelope from the boy, who had reached it toward Shirley. The
criminologist was no less in the dark. Warren, with a scant apology,
tore open the missive. It was typewritten! He read it, and his brows
came together with an angry scowl.

He arose from his seat swiftly, turning toward Shirley with a nervous
twitching of the erstwhile firm lips.

"Would you pardon me if I ran? A Wall Street client of mine has suddenly
been stricken with apoplexy. We have deals together, dependent upon
gentlemen's agreements, without a word of writing. It may mean a fortune
to get to him before he loses all power of speech. It is a shame to
spoil, at this time, such a wonderful dinner as I had promised myself
with you. Can you forgive me?"

The man was visibly panic-stricken, although his superb nerve was
fighting hard to cover his terror. Shirley wondered what news could have
fallen into his hand this way. He watched the envelope, hoping that he
would inadvertently drop it. But no such luck! Warren carefully folded
it and put it with the letter into the breast pocket of his coat.

"My dear fellow, business before indigestion, always! I am sorry to have
you go, but we will try again. I will go upstairs with you. Shall I call
a taxicab for you?"

Warren expostulated, but the host followed him to the check room. Unseen
by Warren, Shirley inserted a handkerchief from his own pocket into the
overcoat pocket of the other with a sleight-of-hand substitution, in the
withdrawal of the guest's small linen square!

Warren rushed to the door. He sprang into the first taxicab that came
along, and disappeared. Shirley watched the car as it raced away and
noticed its number. He turned to the door man.

"Whose machine was that? On the regular club stand here?"

"Yes, sir. A man named Perkins drives it, sir."

"Will it return here as soon as the fare is taken to the end of the
trip?"

"Yes, sir, they have orders for that. They belong to a gent who supplies
cars for our club exclusively, sir. They are not allowed to take outside
passengers."

"Very good! You send for me, in my rooms, as soon as the driver of the
car shows up. I want to find out where he went."

Shirley hurried up in the lift to his own floor. He went to the door of
his room, and tried to open it with his key. It was bolted from inside!
There came a muffled report from within. Then he heard a cry, which
he recognized as the voice of Chen, the Jap. He dropped to the floor,
listening at the crack--a scuffle was in progress within!

CHAPTER XXI. A BURGLARY FOR JUSTICE

Shirley rose, and once more applied that gridiron-trained boot of his:
this time to the lock of the door. Two doses resulted in a complete cure
for its obstinacy. As he rushed into the room, he saw a figure swing out
of the window on a dangling rope. He hesitated--the desire to chase
this intruder to the roof of the club struggled with his duty to the
unfortunate Jap, who lay on the floor, where he was being garroted by a
burly ruffian in a chauffeur's habiliments. He sprang toward his little
assistant, and made quick work of the big man.

As he threw the other, with one of his "silencer" twists of the neck
cords, the Jap sprang up. A demoniac anger twisted that usually smiling
countenance, and it took all of Shirley's strength, to wrest away the
automatic revolver from the maddened valet, to prevent swift revenge.

"Why, Chen. He's caught. Don't shoot him now!"

Chen, with a voluble stream of Nagasaki profanity, spluttered in rage,
and strove like a bantam rooster to get at his antagonist. The necessity
for quieting him to prevent bloodshed was fatal to the pursuit of the
other man, as Shirley realized bitterly. The servants were running to
the room by this time. The club steward opened the battered door, and
Shirley turned to explain.

"You have a brave little man, here, Cushman. Chen heard this burglar
in my room, and tried to capture him at the risk of his own life. He
deserves promotion and a raise in salary. Go downstairs and call the
police. We'll have this fellow locked up!"

The man glared at Shirley, and rubbed his throat which throbbed from the
vice-like grip of the jiu-jitsu. Chen still breathed hard and his almond
eyes rolled nervously. At last he was quiet again, although the slender
fingers twitched hungrily for a clawing of that dirty neck. Shirley
patted him on the back. Judgment had come to another of the gangsters,
and the criminologist was pleased at the diminution in the ranks of his
opponent.

An examination of his cabinet and dresser drawers showed that the
pillaging had barely begun when Chen popped out of his hiding-place.
It was no wonder that Warren had been so solicitous as to the speeding
time: intuition had once more intervened to interrupt these well-laid
schemes.

The little Jap could tell barely more of his adventure than that he had
opened the door when he heard men walking and talking in the room. Then
the struggle had ensued, with the result already described.

Now, indeed, was Shirley more puzzled than ever at Warren's sudden
departure. It had upset the plans of the conspirators: it was an
unwelcome surprise to their Chief. And furthermore it had interfered
with a little scheme of the criminologist by which he had expected to
craftily imprison his guest for the remainder of the night.

The room was put in order--not much was there to rearrange, for the
tussle had come so promptly. With a final look at his belongings,
Shirley left Chen in charge, not forgetting to slip to him another
reward for his courage.

Then he went downstairs and hurried over to the Hotel California to hold
a conference of war with Helene Marigold.

She was nervous, as she greeted him. Yet a subtle smile on her face
showed that she was not surprised by the visit. Shirley quickly outlined
the occurrences of the dinner hour. When he asked her opinion, for he
had learned to place a growing trust in her quick grasp of things, she
walked silently to her typewriter.

"Here, sir, is a little note which may amuse you."

She handed him a piece of paper. It read:

"Chief: The Monk has turned up at the Blue Goose on Water Street. He is
drunk and telling all he knows. Come down at once to help us quiet him.
Hurry or every thing will be known. You know who."

Shirley looked at the message, and then with tilted eyebrows at his fair
companion.

"What do you know about the Blue Goose?" he asked. "And the Monk? For I
presume that you wrote this out?"

"Your presumption is correct. I remembered hearing Warren ask Taylor
this afternoon after that telephone call from you, where the Blue Goose
saloon could be. Taylor told him it was a sailor's dive on Water Street.
The night they thought me dreaming on his library couch, I heard Taylor
ask Warren if they had heard from the Monk. So, it seemed to me that
the two questions might interest Mr. Reginald Warren if presented in a
language that he understood."

"And what was that language?"

"It was a code message, which I typed out on this Remwood machine here,
by the system you told me. It was slow work, but I finished it and sent
it over to the club, knowing Warren would be with you. I really don't
know what good the message would do. But being an illogical woman, and
a descendant of Pandora, I thought it would be amusing to open the
Pandora's box and let all the little devils loose, just to see the
glitter of their wings!"

Shirley caught her hands delightedly.

"You bully girl! Nothing could have happened better. I'll improve my
time now, by visiting Mr. Warren's apartment, impolite as it is without
an invitation. And then I think I will go calling in that little cave of
the winds in the rear of his art collection, on the other street."

"But, Monty--I Mean, Mr. Shirley," and a rosy embarrassment overcame
her, "you will put your head into the lion's mouth once too often. Why
not wait until you get him under lock and key?"

"My dear girl, we will telephone my club and talk to the door man. I
think that he may be under lock and key by this time, in a manner you
little suspect. Let me have the number."

He went to the instrument on her dressing-table. The club was soon
reached, and Dan the door man was answering his eager question.

"Yes, sir, the taxi has come back, sir."

"Send the chauffeur to the wire. I want to talk to him," said Shirley.
The man was soon speaking. "What address did you take that gentleman to,
my man?"

"Why, sir, I started out for the Battery, but sir, a terrible thing
happened."

"What was it?"

"The gentleman was overcome with an ep'leptic stroke or somethin' like
that. He pounded on the winder behind me, and when I stopped me car, and
looked in he was down an' out. I was on Thirty-third Street and Fift'
Avenue at the time, so I calls a cop, and he orders me to run 'im over
to Bellevue. He's there now, sir. He ain't hardly breathin', sir. It's
terrible!"

"Too bad, I must go and call, to see if I can help him!" was Shirley's
remark as he hung up the receiver. He repeated the news to Helene. Her
eyes sparkled, as she said: "Ah, those symptoms resemble the ones you
told me which came from that amo-amas-amat-citron, or whatever it was."

"Not quite such a loving lemon, Miss Marigold," he chuckled. "Amyl
nitrite. The same soothing syrup which quieted our would-be robbers on
Sixth Avenue, that night when we left his apartment. It will wear off
in about three hours. I had a little glass container folded in my own
handkerchief, which I put in his overcoat pocket as a parting souvenir,
crushing it as I did so. I reasoned that undue anxiety which he
displayed might cause him to mop his brow, close to that student-duel
scar. One smell of the chemical on that handkerchief, in the quantity
which I gave, was enough to quiet his worries. Now for the Somerset
Apartment."

He looked at his watch.

"It is eight fifteen. I want you to telephone up to Warren's apartment
exactly at ten o'clock. Tell them--there should be a them, that I have
been overcome in your apartment, and that they are the only people who
can help you, or who know you. I believe that the idea of finding me
unconscious, and getting me away will bring any and all of his friends
who may be there. If Taylor is there with others, he will hardly leave
them in the place when he goes. What I want is to be sure that the coast
is cleared of people at that hour. Then I will make an investigation
into his papers and other matters of interest. Can I count on you?"

A reproachful pouting of the scarlet lips was the only answer. Shirley
left, this time hurrying uptown to a certain engine-house, whose fire
captain he had known quite well in the old reportorial days.

It was beginning to snow once more. And as Shirley slipped out of the
engine-house, carrying a scaling ladder which he had borrowed after much
persuasion from his good-natured friend, he thanked his luck for this
natural veiling of the night, to baffle eyes too curious about the
campaign he had planned. He knew the posts of the policemen on this
street, and sedulously avoided them.

The Warren apartment faced the Eastern side of the structure, and when
he reached the front of the Somerset, he sought for a way in which
to use his implement. A scaling ladder, it may be explained to the
uninitiated, is about eight feet long--a single fire-proof bar, on which
are short cross-pieces. At one end is a curiously curving serrated hook,
which is used for grappling on the sills of windows or ledges above.
It is the most useful weapon for the city fire-fighter, enabling him to
climb diagonally across the face of a threatened structure, or even
to swing horizontally from one window to a far one, where ladders and
hose-streams might not reach.

A hundred feet to the West of the Somerset he found the excavations for
a new apartment house. No watchman was in sight, in the mist of falling
flakes, so the criminologist disappeared over the fence which separated
the plot of ground from the sidewalk. Advancing with many a stumble
through the blasted rock and shale, he obtained ingress to an alleyway
in the rear. Following this brought him to the back of the Somerset.
Shirley had an obstinate grandfather, and heredity was strong upon him.
It seemed a foolhardy attempt to scale the big structure, but he raised
the ladder to the window-sill of the second story, climbing cautiously
up to that ledge.

On the second sill he rested, then stretched his scaler diagonally
forward to the left. As he put his feet upon this, he swung like a
pendulum across the space. It was a severe grueling of nerves, but his
judgment of placement was good. When the ladder stopped swinging he
clambered up another story, as he had learned to do on truant afternoons
wasted at the firemen's training school, during the privileged days of
journalistic work.

Floor after floor he ascended, until he reached the eighth, on which was
Shirley's great goal. Here he exerted the utmost prudence, refraining
from the natural impulse to look down at the great crevasse beneath
him. His footing was slippery, but the thickening snowfall was a boon
in white disguise, for it protected him from almost certain observation
from the street below. Slowly he raised his eyes to a level with the
illuminated window, and peered in.

A strange sight greeted him.

Shine Taylor was busily engaged in the 'twisting of coils of wire, about
shiny brass cylinders, with an array of small and large clocks, electric
batteries and mysterious bottles on the carved library table. He was
intent upon the manufacture of another of his diabolical engines of
death!

Even as he watched, the door opened and who should stagger into the room
but Reginald Warren!

"Great Scott, Reg! What hit you?" was Taylor's ejaculation, as the
other stumbled forward, with a hand to his purple face, to sink into an
easy-chair, groaning. The man outside the window could not distinguish
the words, but the current of thought was well expressed in pantomime.

"I've been drugged!" moaned Warren. "That devil put something on my
handkerchief which knocked me out. I came to in Bellevue and I had a
time getting away to come back here. What about the Monk? Did you see
him?"

Taylor had run to his side. It seemed as though Warren's eyes would pop
from his head. The veins were swollen on his pallid brow, and he gasped
for air.

"Open the window!" he murmured, and his confederate rushed to the very
portal through which the criminologist was watching this unusual
scene, with bated breath. His heart sank, as he lowered himself with
a suddenness which vibrated the loosely-attached scaler. For the first
time his eyes turned toward the terrifying distance from which he had
ascended.

There was a squeak and he heard the window slide in its frame. He
felt that all was over. It would be impossible for Shine Taylor not to
observe the hooked prong of the ladder, with its curving metal a few
inches from his hands. In this ghastly minute of suspense, Shiley's
thoughts, strangely enough turned back to one thing. He did not
dash through the gamut of his life experiences nor regret all past
peccadilloes, as novelists inform us is generally the ultimate thought
in the supreme moment before a dash into eternity! He felt only a
maddening, itchingly bewitching desire to reach up to his coat pocket
and draw out that scent-laden page of typed note-paper which had been
glorified by its caress of the warm, bare bosom of the wonderful woman
who had so mysteriously drifted into the current of his life.

Then he heard a voice through the open window so close to his ears: it
was Shine Taylor's nasal whine.

"It's snowing, Reg. The air will do you good. What a gorgeous night for
a murder. Tell me now, what was the trouble?"

And Shirley swung, and swung and swung!

CHAPTER XXII. IN THE DOUBLE TRAP

Eternity had passed, the Judgment Day had been overlooked and new aeons
had gone their way, it seemed to the criminologist, when the voice was
audible again.

"Oh, all right. I just drew it down from the top. Tell me about your
doping. Who was the devil?"

He had been unobserved. By the grace of the fates, Warren's sudden
appearance had given him a better chance to hear their secrets, and
Taylor's own abstraction had dissipated any interest in the world beyond
the window. Again he lifted himself to the level of the sill, sure that
the creamy curtains upon which the light from the big electrolier
was beaming, would shield him from their view. Warren called for some
brandy. Taylor served him, but it was three minutes or more before the
other could collect himself. Then he began furiously, as the pain in his
forehead diminished.

"This Shirley: he's a clever dog. He put something on my handkerchief,
and when I got that message of yours it got me, right in the taxicab, as
I was on my way to the Blue Goose to meet you."

"To meet me?" and Taylor's turn came to be startled. "I don't know why
you should meet me at the Blue Goose!"

"Say, didn't you send me this note in code?" demanded Warren, drawing
out the typewritten sheet. Taylor shook his head, with a blanched face.

The other looked at him with the first evidence of fear which Shirley
had ever seen on the confident face. Warren caught his assistant's hand,
and drew his face down toward the note.

"Look, it is in our code. Phil can read it but he is the only one beside
you. He is locked up in jail, and couldn't reach a typewriter. I got a
message from him this afternoon that he wouldn't squeal. You know how he
smuggled it out to me. Tell me how could any one know about the Monk and
write this so?"

Taylor shook his head, speechless. As he turned his face toward the
window Shirley observed the great drawn shadows under his squinting
eyes. The sudden shock was telling on that weasel face. Taylor walked
unsteadily toward the infernal machine, and he looked blankly toward
Warren again. The other's blazing orbs were full upon him now. There was
a frightful menace in their glittering depths as he spoke.

"Taylor, if I thought you had sold out I'd skin you alive right now!"

"Reg--Reg--you are my best friend. Don't say a thing like that."

"Are you selling me for some purpose. Are you soft on that chicken? Has
she blarneyed you into this?" demanded his chief, rising, unsteadily,
but fierce in his suspicious tensity.

Taylor cowered, with imploring hands stretched out.

"Why, Reg, no one ever did for me what you've done. I'd die rather than
sell you out, and there ain't a dame in the world that could make me
soft on a real game like this."

As Warren studied his white face there came a tinkle on the telephone.

"What's that? Who's that?" Warren turned and ran toward the instrument,
still studying the face of his companion. It was evident that a seed of
distrust was planted in his bosom. He answered nervously.

"Yes, yes! What do you want? Who's speaking?"

Then he listened, and a wise expression came over his face. It broke
into a smile for the first time since he entered the room. He winked at
Taylor who drew near him. Shirley strained his ears to catch the words.

"Yes, yes, why, my dear Miss Bonbon. Surely, I'll be glad to come
down--To help take care of Mr. Shirley--Of course, I will come in my
machine and bring him uptown to a hospital--That's what you want?--Yes,
indeed, nothing would give me greater pleasure."

He rang off, and turned toward Taylor.

"That smooth devil has sniffed some of his own dope as sure as you live,
Shine. We'll get him. Call up and have the machine sent around. You and
I will be a committee of two, and we'll end this tonight. Bring what you
need."

Warren drank another full glass of brandy, while Taylor gave a quick
order over the telephone. Then the latter snatched up a small black
satchel which was standing on a side table. The assistant came to the
window, and Shirley dropped down out of sight, for another moment of
suspense. But the sash was quickly closed and bolted.

The light was turned out, and he waited another five minutes, stiffening
in the cold wind which had sprung up to send the big flakes in eddies
against his numbed fingers. With difficulty he fished out a long, thin
wire from his pocket, with which he had frequently turned the safety
catch of windows on other such occasions. Again it served its purpose,
and he drew himself up to the sash of the opened window. He brushed off
the snow, so as to leave no telltale puddles of drippings. He went to
the door of the library, and then to that of the vestibule.

It was locked from the outside, even as they had done when Helene was
the drowsy prisoner.

He had little time, he knew, for his search, but he first thought of
the girl's predicament. He must cover the tracks there. He took up the
receiver, and in a minute was talking to her.

"I'm in. Leave word downstairs (and pay the clerk and bell-boy a good
bribe) that you have gone to a hospital with a sick friend. Tell them
to swear to that, and better still leave the hotel at once, hunt up
Dick Holloway--you'll find him at the Thespis Club to-night. Send in the
chauffeur to ask for him and have him stay with you in the machine. I am
going to visit the other place when I finish here. I'll be down there,
at the Thespis Club, by eleven again. Good-bye--use your wits."

Then he began a hurried ransacking of the apartment. He picked up a
note-book here, sheets of memoranda there, letters and documents which
he thought would be convenient. Warren's bedrooms were locked, but a
small "jimmie" sufficed to force them open. He found in one drawer a
dozen or more bank books, with as many different financial houses, and
under many names. This he shoved into his pockets. At last, satisfied
that he could gain no more, he retreated to the window. He shut this
and was once more on the windowsill. Here he looked down, and a new
inspiration came to him. He would have difficulty in getting admission
to the apartment entrance, at this time of night. The attendant would
remember him and warn Warren upon the latter's return. It was but one
more climb, a single story, to the roof. So, up he went, deserting the
faithful scaling ladder on the roof, for the time being.

He sought around for several minutes on the snowy, slippery surface
before he found the entrance to the iron stairway close by the elevator
shaft. Then he went softly down.

Past Warren's apartment, on his way without a noise, his boots off, he
continued until he reached the second floor. Here he was baffled again.
Why had he not taken some impression of the pass-key of the negro
attendant when let in before? Yet now he remembered that the man had
never relinquished his hold upon that open sesame. He remembered the
"jimmy"--yet this would betray him, by the broken lock!

There was the servant's entrance, however, in the rear of the hallway.
To this he slipped, even as the elevator passed up bearing Warren and
Shine Taylor, muttering angrily. Shirley found the rear door to the
rooms, and there he worked quickly, forcing the lock. He was soon
inside, and hid himself in the pantry of the darkened apartment. He had
not long to wait.

There was a clicking noise which reverberated through the empty room,
as the other two entered by the front portal. He heard them talking in
whispers, then the creaking of a window, and all was silent again.

Shirley went to the same small window through which he had descended
before. With his boots tied together by their laces, and suspended from
his neck, on either side, he went down the rope noiselessly. He found
the iron door partially opened, as he reached the end of the corridor. A
block of wood held it back from the jamb.

"He is prepared for a quick retreat. So shall I be," thought Shirley,
as he noiselessly crept into the chamber, after having drawn away the
wooden block. He let the door come gently to its frame, stopping it
within an inch of its lock. As he turned slightly forward he caught two
curious silhouettes: Warren at his table, with Shine at his side, their
outlines clear and black against the brightness of the headlights.
On, the other side of the transparent screen stood a man, with one
eye blackened, his face badly bruised and wicked in its battered
condensation of evil determination with rage and fright, so oddly mixed.

"It ain't my fault, Chief! There are only six of the boys left. I tried
me best but this little Chinyman he soaks me one on the lamp, with a
gun butt. Me pal was nabbed in the room when I sneaks out on the rope. I
finds out afterward that Jimmie's watch must-a been about twenty minutes
slow. That's how we misses."

"But you didn't get him, and I'm going to break you for this!"

"But gov'nor, listen--we leaves the machine all right. That'll git 'im
anyway. What'll I do?"

"I have the addresses of the other men here in my pocket. You tell them
to stick right in their rooms for the next twenty-four hours. If they
don't hear anything from me, tell them to go to Frisco by roundabout
ways and I'll forward their money, care of Kelso. Now get out."

The man disappeared and there was a double click as the door to the
front compartment closed. Warren turned toward Taylor, While Shirley
flattened himself against the rear wall, and crouched down slowly,
without a betraying sound.

"I don't understand that girl not being there. Some one's closing in on
us. I'm going to break that girl's spirit before I'm through. She'll be
on the yacht tonight, for everything's ready now. What sort of a machine
did you arrange for his room?"

"The old telephone one we worked in Oakland. It is under his bed. I told
the men to do that first before they went through his things. Then it
would look like plain robbery, and when he goes to take the receiver
off the hook it's 'good-night, nursey!' That little popper will blow the
roof off that club house!"

Shirley's blood might have run cold at the calm pride of this degenerate
fiend, had it not been boiling at the reference to Helene. He crept
nearer to them, along the wall. He lay down on the floor, below the
level of the first bullet paths. Then he drew his automatic and the bulb
light, ready for his surprise.

"I'll call up Kick Brown at the telephone company. He's on duty until
twelve. That's an hour yet."

He placed the plug in position but there came no answer over his private
wire. Warren cursed: this time in a dialect unknown to Shirley. The man
was asserting his most primitive nature now.

"What does that mean? He knows that it's important to-night. I wonder if
some one has squealed. You know what I said upstairs, Shine?" Warren's
voice was ominous. "I don't like the looks of things. And you're the
only one who has ever known the inside working of my system. I've even
told you the key to my code--Phil knows it in part, but there is nothing
I've kept from you."

Here Shirley's dramatic instinct asserted itself. In a sepulchral voice,
he spoke: "One key to the right, in writing. One to the left to read.
Hands up, Warren, you're wanted in Paris, and we have the goods on you!"

Placing the bulb light far to his left, he twisted the little catch
which kept it glowing permanently. The light fell full on the face of
Warren and Taylor as they sprang up back to back!

"Drop that revolver. It's all up now. You go to the chair for these
murders."

Warren shot for the body he supposed to be above the little light. As he
did so Shirley sent a bullet into the arch criminal's right wrist.
The weapon dropped from his hand to the table. Shine Taylor,
terror-stricken, staggered against his companion, groping for support.
Warren misunderstood it: he thought his assistant was trying to hold
him. The swift interpretation gave new fuel to the flame of mistrust
which had sprung up in his heart. He knew not how many men were
about him--he merely realized that his crafty plans had been set at
naught,--there could be only this one explanation. He struck at Taylor,
who moaned in pain.

"You cur, you've squealed on me!" With his uninjured left hand he caught
the other in his Oriental death grip, with all his consummate skill.
Astonished at the sudden move, Shirley rose to his feet. But he
hesitated too long.

With a faint gurgle, Shine Taylor, pickpocket, mechanical artist and
criminal genius sank to the mouldy ground of the cellar--lifeless!

Shirley snatched up the light, instinctively throwing its rays upon the
face of the dead man. It was horrible to see this ghastly ending of the
miserable life, so suddenly conceived and grewsomely executed! Here was
Warren's opportunity. He caught up his weapon from the table with the
left hand, and sent a shot at the intruder, leaping at the same time
toward the rear entrance. Monty swung the light about, but the other
threw on an electric switch. He stood by the iron portal a fiendish
smirk on his distorted features.

"So, my luck is good after all: I've got you where I most want you!" His
weapon covered Shirley's. "I shoot as well with my left hand as with
my right. But, no, I won't shoot you. I'll put you away without a
trace left. That is always the clever way. I told you that the average
criminal was too careless about little things. Good-bye, Mr. Montague
Shirley, I wish you a pleasant journey!"

His hand, bleeding from the bullet wound, was pushing the iron door,
behind him as he faced Shirley. Suddenly a frightful sound broke the
stillness: it was the final exhalation of air from the dead man's lungs.
It sent a creeping chill through Shirley's blood. Warren's right hand
dropped, nervously for an instant, despite his resolution. In that
second Shirley had brought his own weapon up to a level with the other's
eyes.

The door closed with a clang!

Warren's face lost its sneering smile. He was locked in from the rear!

"Now, let's see you get out the front way," retorted the criminologist.
He had one hand behind him. He felt a metal contrivance, With three
buttons on it. He thought perhaps it were the controlling switch for
the lights. He would take his chances in the dark. He pressed all three
quickly.

There was a clang from the front, as some mechanism whirred for an
instant. A gong sounded above, and scurrying feet could be heard--then
were audible no more. It was the warning alarm for the gangsters: they
had fled.

Suddenly to Shirley's straining ears came the tick-ticking of an alarm
clock, from the corner of the room to his right. He dare not look at it.
Warren's eyes grew black with the Great Fear!

"You fool, you've locked all the entrances, and sent the men away. That
clock will ring in exactly five minutes. When it does, this place will
go up from a load of lyddite. You've dug your own grave!"

Warren's voice was hoarse, and his bright eyes radiated venomously, as
he kept his weapon pointed, like Shirley's, at the face opposite. They
were both prisoners in the death cellar, with the advantage in favor of
neither!

And the ticking clock, with its maddening, mechanical death chant
seemed to Shirley to cry, with each beat, like the reminiscence of some
nightmare barbershop: "Next! Next! Next!"

CHAPTER XXIII. CAPTURED AND THEN

Warren's white lips were moving in perfect synchronism, as he counted
the seconds and ticks of the clock. Shirley, never so acute, cudgeled
his mind for some devise by which he might overcame the other. It was
hopeless. At last, just as he knew the inevitable second was almost
completed, a faint rustling came from the other side of the iron door.
Warren's face brightened with hope. With a nerve-racking rasp, the iron
bar on the other side was raised: it was a torturing delay as the two
waited!

The door slowly opened. After a harrowing pause a revolver muzzle slid
gently through the crack, and a woman's voice murmured softly: "Drop the
gun!"

It was Helene Marigold!

Warren's ashen face changed to purple hue, his hand trembled just
enough to incite Shirley to a desperate chance. As the criminal drew the
trigger with a spasmodic jerk, Shirley was dropping to the floor, whence
he pushed himself forward with a froglike leap, as he straightened out
the great muscles.

Together they rolled in a frenzied struggle.

"Run back, Helene. The clock will explode!" cried Shirley, desperately.
Instead, she sprang into the bright room, espied the diabolical
arrangement in the corner, and ran to pick it up. She saw the wire, and
her deft fingers reached behind the clock to turn back its hands. Had
she torn the wire, as a man would have done, the dreaded explosion would
have ended it all.

"We're coming!"

It was the voice of Pat Cleary from the passageway. He rushed through
the subterranean passage, followed by several men, with Dick Holloway
excitedly in their train. After a titanic struggle, with the man baffled
in this maddening moment of ruined triumph, they handcuffed him.

Shirley led Helene into the front compartment before she could observe
the horror stamped upon the face of the murdered rogue.

The girl turned her glorious eyes to his, reached forth her hands, and
then the eternal feminine conquered as she trembled unsteadily and sank
into his arms.

"Break down the doors, Cleary. Out here, to the street. Pull off the
hands of that clock--it's a lyddite bomb!" cried Shirley, excitedly.

One of the men used the table with clattering effect. The iron door of
the front room gave way, and Shirley carried Helene up the ladder, to
the main floor of the old garage. She seemed a sleeping lily--so pale,
so fragile, so fragrant in her colorless beauty. He had never seen her
so before! For an instant a great terror pierced him: she seemed not to
breathe. But as he placed his face close to her mouth, her eyes opened
for one divine look, then drooped again. A white hand and arm curled,
with childish confidence, about his shoulder. He bore her thus to the
big car from the Agency, which stood outside.

"Quick, down to the Hotel California," he called to the chauffeur, "Pat
Cleary can handle matters there."

As they sped toward her apartment the roses took their wonted place
in her cheeks. She sat up to smile in his face. Then she lowered
her glance, with carmine mounting hotly to her brow. Helene said no
word--nor did Shirley. She simply leaned toward him, to bury her face
upon the broad shoulder, as neither heeded the possible curiosity of the
driver on the seat in front.

At least, they understood completely. There was nothing else to say!

        *       *       *

As Shirley left her at the door of the apartment, he turned into the
elevator, his mind whirling with the strange imprisonment into which he
had let his unwilling heart drift. The clerk stopped him at the lower
floor.

"There's a call for you, sir. It's rush, the gentleman said!"

"Great Scott! What now?" he ran to the instrument, and he heard Captain
Cronin's excited voice.

"Shirley. The man's escaped again! They just came into the place. He
threw some sort of bottle at the front of the patrol wagon which blew it
all to pieces. He got away in the mix-up--three policemen were injured!"

"I'll get him, Captain, if it's the last act of my life."

To the surprise of the blase clerk, the well-known club man ran out of
the hotel, dropping his hat in his excitement. He shouted to the driver
who still waited in the agency machine.

"The sky's the limit, now, son. Race for Twenty-first Street and the
East River. Let me off at the end of the dock. Then go back to get some
men from the agency, as I'll have a prisoner, then, or they'll get my
body!"

The machine raced down the street, regardless of the warnings of
policemen. Shirley was confident that his was not the only car on such
a mission. He reached the dock of Manby, where was waiting the expert
engineer of the hydroplane. He had not planned in vain.

"Have you seen an auto go past here before mine?"

"Yes, sir, I was smoking me pipe, and settin' on the rail of the dock,
when one shoots up toward the Twenty-third Street Ferry, with a cop on a
motor-cycle chasin' it behind."

"Then, quick, into the boat."

They clambered down the wet ladder, and after an aggravating delay, the
whirring engines of the racing craft were started. Shirley took off his
coat, and lashed a long rope about his waist. He tied the other end of
it securely to a thwart in the boat.

"What's your idee, Cap?" asked the engineer, as he waited the signal.

"There's a man trying to catch that white yacht out in the river. I want
to get him, that's all. If I fall out of this boat, keep right on going,
for I'm tied up now. Where's the boat hook?"

"Here, sir. Are you ready? Just give me your directions. All right, sir,
we're off."

Shirley grunted and the hydroplane sped out onto the river, in a big
curve, as he directed. Like a white ghost on the river was the trim
yacht, which even now could be seen speeding down the stream, all steam
up. There were two toots on the whistle and Shirley feared that his man
had boarded her. But the hydroplane, ploughing through the cold waves,
whizzed toward the yacht, as he climbed out to the small flat stern. A
small boat had swung close to the yacht now. A ladder had been lowered
from a spar, while a man standing in the little craft missed it. The
yacht was gliding past the boat, when another rope ladder was deftly
swung over the stern.

The hydroplane was close up now, and Shirley saw his prey dangling at
the end of the ladder, now in the water, struggling with the rungs of
the ladder, and now being drawn up.

His engineer, with a skilful hand on the helm, swung in close to the
yacht, as keen for the capture as his patron. They whizzed past at
almost railroad speed, and Shirley, sprang toward the ladder. His arms
closed about the body of Reginald Warren in a grip which he braced by a
curious finger-lock he had learned in wrestling practice.

Two revolvers barked over the taffrail of the yacht, as the hydroplane
raced onward, dragging Shirley and his prisoner at the end of the rope,
through the water. Again the shots rang out, but they were out of range,
on the dark waters so quickly, that before the police boat had set
out from shore to investigate the firing from the pleasure vessel, the
criminologist's struggle with his wounded antagonist was over.

Half drowned, himself, with Warren completely past consciousness,
Shirley was pulled into his own boat as the engines were slowed down.
They returned rapidly to the dock.

"Help me work him--that was a pretty rough yank. He's been shot in the
hand already."

They rolled Warren on a barrel, "pumped" his arms, and by the time the
Cronin automobile had returned with the other detectives, Warren was
restored to understanding again. Shirley forced some liquor between his
teeth, to be greeted with a torrent of strange oaths.

"The jig is up, Warren," said the criminologist. "As a chess-player
in the little game, you are a wonder. But, I think I may at last call
'Checkmate.'"

"I'm not dead yet, Shirley," hissed Warren. "I gave you your chance to
keep out of this. But you wouldn't take it. I'll settle the score with
you before I'm finished. There's one man in the world who knows how to
get away from bars. I'm that man."

Then his teeth snapped together with a click. He said nothing more that
night, even during the operation for probing Shirley's bullet, and the
painful dressing. At the station-house, and his arraignment before the
magistrate at Night Court, where he saw some other familiar faces of
his fellow gangsters--now rounded up on the same charges--he still
maintained that feline silence.

And his eyes never left the face of Montague Shirley, as long as that
calm young man was in sight!

Shirley merely presented his charge of murder--for the strangling of
Shine Taylor. The names of the aged millionaires were not brought into
the matter--there was no need. He had done his work well.

At Cronin's agency, late that night, there came a cablegram from the
greatest detective bureau of France.

"The Montfleury case" was the most daring robbery and sale of state war
secrets ever perpetrated in Paris. It had been successful, despite the
capture, and conviction of the criminal, Laschlas Rozi, a Hungarian
adventurer who had killed three men to carry his point. The scoundrel
had escaped after murdering his prison guard, and wearing his clothes
out of the gaol. A reward of 100,000 francs had been offered for his
capture, by the Department of Justice.

"Monty, who gets all the credit for this little deal--that's what's
bothering me?" asked Captain Cronin, as they sipped a toast of rare old
port, in his rear office.

Shirley lit the ubiquitous cigarette, and tilted back in his chair.

"Captain: why ask foolish questions? This case ought to buy you five or
six of those big farms you've been planning about--and leave you fifty
thousand dollars with which to pay the damages for being a gentleman
farmer."

"And you, Monty? You know you never have to present a bill with me. What
will you do with your pin money?"

"I'm going down on Fifth Avenue tomorrow and invest it in a solitaire
ring, for a very small finger."

CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION

Shirley made some investigations in a private reading room of the
Public Library: there was much good treasure there, not salable over the
counter of a grocery store, mayhap, but unusually valuable in the high
grade work which was his specialty. In an old volume enumerating the
noble families of Austro-Hungary he found two distinguished lines,
"Laschlas" and "Rozi."

From the library he went to a cable office where he sent a message to
the chief of police of Budapesth inquiring about the remaining members
of the families. The old volume in the library was thirty-four years
behind the times: it was the only record obtainable in America.

After a couple of hours, which he devote to some personal matters, he
received a response to his inquiry. When translated from the Hungarian
it read thus:

"Professor Montague Shirley, College Club, N.Y., U.S.A.

Families extinct except Countess Laschlas, and son Count Rozi Laschlas,
reported killed in Albanian revolution.

                            Csherkini, Minister of Justice."

The criminologist was happy. Here was a weapon which he had not yet
used. Now he turned his steps towards the Tombs, for an interview with
the prisoner.

After some parley with the warden, he was admitted for a visit to
Reginald Warren. That gentleman's fury was rekindled at the sight of
the club man who had been so instrumental in his downfall. But a cunning
smile played over the features of the criminal.

"So, you have come to gloat over your work, Shirley? Well, it is a game
two can play."

"Yes? I am always interested in sport. I came to see if there was
anything I could do for you in your confinement," was the unruffled
reply.

"You will be busy with your own affairs," retorted Warren. "I have been
busy writing my confession. Here is the manuscript. I will baffle all
your efforts to hush up the affairs of the 'Lobster Club.' Furthermore,
my confession," (and he exultantly waved a mass of manuscript at his
visitor,) "will send young Van Cleft to prison for perjury on the
certificate of his father's death. Captain Cronin, that prince of
blockheads, will share the same fate. Professor MacDonald, who I know
very well signed the death certificates, will be disgraced and driven
from professional standing. You will be implicated in this plot to
thwart justice. With the German university thoroughness to which you so
sarcastically referred, I have written down the facts as carefully as
though I were preparing a thesis for a doctor's degree!"

He laughed maliciously, studying the effect of his words. He was
disappointed. Shirley's bland manner changed not a whit. Instead the
criminologist offered him a cigarette.

"You might as well smoke now--as later!" and there was a wealth of
innuendo in the emphasis. "Is that all you are going to do, to square
your accounts?"

"By no means! As my trump card, I have implicated Miss Helene Marigold
in the various exploits which have been so successful now. She is
unknown in New York--I investigated that matter. She will have a fine
task in proving an alibi, after the careful preparation I have made. In
fact, I accuse her of being the mistress of my dead con'federate--"

Shirley sprang to his feet, and the rage which was shown in his strong
features brought a leer to the face of the other.

"Strike me," continued the tormentor. "All I have to do is to call the
guard. I have been busy thinking since they locked me up here. There is
nothing more to do to me than the electric chair--but, I am not finished
yet."

The criminologist controlled himself with difficulty. He realized that
an altercation with the prisoner would shatter his whole case, like a
house of cards blown down by a vagrant breeze. He sat down again, the
mask of calm indifference playing over his features.

"And what then?"

"Is not that sufficient to interest you? It will be another month before
my trial, and my literary work has just begun. The newspapers are filled
with war news, which have ceased to be a nine days' wonder. I shall
provide them with material which will be the story of the age! Another
month, and then?"

The prisoner lit the cigarette which he had accepted, and stretched back
in the plain wooden chair to enjoy the misery of his victim.

"But, a month--let me see? That would enable me to do some corresponding
myself, wouldn't it?" and Shirley took out a memorandum book. "You have
degraded a splendid intellect, a gallant spirit and brought disgrace
upon yourself, for this miserable ending. You have ruthlessly murdered
others, caring naught for the misery and wretchedness of those left
behind. Has it been worth it all, Warren?"

The other's eyes twinkled, as he nodded.

"A wonderful game. And I haven't completed the score, even now."

"You are right, Warren. There is one soul more whom you have not
affected. It is too bad that you were not killed in the Albanian
revolution,--then you would have been on record as a hero instead of the
vilest scoundrel in Christendom."

Had the death-dealing current of the electric chair been turned upon
Warren he could not have been more startled, as he sprang up. His
pallid face seemed to turn a sickly green, as his dark eyes opened in
galvanized amazement.

"Albanian--what do you mean? I never saw Albania!"

"You will never see it again. You will never see Budapesth again,
either," was the menacing continuation of the criminologist's methodical
speech. "But a very old lady, the Countess Laschlas, will see the
accounts of her son's wretched death, in the New York papers which will
be sent to her, in care of the American consul!"

It was merely a deductive guess: but the shot struck the center of
the bull's-eye. Warren, alias Count Laschlas, staggered back, and his
nervous fingers touched the chilling surface of the stone wall. He
dropped his eyes, and then strove to regain his nonchalance. It was a
pitiable failure.

"Just as you have dealt to the children of others, so will you deal
with your own mother, the last of a distinguished line of aristocrats.
I swear, by the memory of my own dead parents, that I will avenge the
misery you have given to the innocent. The good Book says, the sins of
the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third and
the fourth generation. But life to-day has taught me that the sins of
the children are visited upon the fathers and the mothers--especially,
the sweet, loving, trusting mothers! As I value my honor, Reginald
Warren, or Count Rozi, I will see to it that your mother shall know
every detail of the whole miserable career of her son. That is my answer
to your alleged confession. If there is a hereafter, from which you may
observe that which follows your death, you will be able to see through
eternity the earthly punishment which has been visited upon the one
person whom you love and respect."

The criminal's ashen face was buried in his hands.

Great sobs emanated from his white lips, as his shoulders heaved in a
paroxysm.

Shirley had struck the Achilles tendon--the hardest wretch in the world
had one, as he knew!

"Oh--oh--" he moaned, "the poor little mutter. She has forgiven so much,
suffered so much. You can't do it. You won't do it!" He fell to his
knees, clawing at the criminologist's garments with his trembling hands,
the tears streaming down his face.

"What about those who have seen no compassion from you?" cried Shirley
in a terrible voice. "Your vanity, your self-worship! Do they not
comfort you now? This is only the suffering of another which you
contemplate! Why all these hysterics?"

Warren, groveling on the floor of the reception-room, was a picture
of abject, horrid soul-torture. At last, through the subtlety of this
unconventional sleuth, along methods which were never dreamed of in the
ordinary police category, he had been broken on the wheel which he had
himself so cunningly constructed!

"And if that mother dies, cursing your memory with her last breath,
cursing the love of the father, of her husband, of the ancestors, all
responsible for your being in the world today, what will you think, when
you watch from the other side of that great unseen wall?"

"Oh, Shirley! I can't. See--I'll destroy this stuff. I'll keep silent
about the others. I mean it. Here: I tear it up now and give you the
pieces to burn!"

Warren, maddened by his fears, nervously tore the sheets into bits and
pressed the remnants into the criminologist's hands.

"Will you promise to keep my identity a secret?"

"I will not send word to Budapesth. You have a bad record in Paris,
and other parts of the world. But, if you play fair on the confidential
nature of this case, saving the innocent from disgrace and shame, I will
see that the story never reaches your mother. There is no need to ask
this on your honor--that does not count."

Warren winced at this final thrust. He turned toward Shirley, eagerly.

"You don't understand me at that, Shirley. I have had a curious career.
Somewhere I inherited a strain of criminality--you know how many
ancestors a man has in ten generations. I was a member of a poor but
prominent family. The government paid for my education in the best
universities of Europe, for I was to hold a position under the Emperor,
which had been held in my family for generations. But I was ruined by
the extravagances and the excesses which I learned from the rich young
men whom I met. I studied feverishly, yet was able to waste much time
with the gilded fools, by my ability to learn more quickly. The result
was that I could not be contented with the small salary of my government
office. I had to keep up appearances with my companions. So, I drifted
into gambling, into sharp tricks--then became a mercenary soldier,
an officer, in the continuous revolutions of the southeastern part of
Europe. I sank deeper and at last, in one serious escapade, I managed to
have myself reported dead, so as to quiet the heartaches of my mother,
who believed I was killed on the battlefield. There is the miserable
story--or all I will tell. They caught me in Paris and a girl betrayed
part of my name--fortunately they did not hunt me up, so my mother
was saved that disgrace. Will you keep the secret now, on our
understanding?"

"I give you my word for that, Warren." Shirley rose, putting the torn-up
papers into his pockets. "I am sorry for the past--but you have made the
present for yourself. Good-bye."

Warren returned to his cell and the detective to the club house.

There he found an additional cable message. It said: "Countess Laschlas
has been dead ten months." It was signed like the other.

Shirley tore up the message, and blinked more than seemed necessary.

"Poor little old lady, she knows it all now. I will not have to tell
her."

        *       *       *

That afternoon Shirley called again at the Hotel California for Helene.

"I want you to go to a sweet, old-fashioned English tea-room, where I
may tell you the rest of the story. There will be no tango music, no
cymbals, no tinkling cocktails, nor, champagne. Can you pour real tea?"

"I am an English girl. I have been five days without it."

As they were ensconced at the quaint little table, he realized how
wondrously blended in her was that triad of feminine essential spirits:
the eternal mother instinct, the sensuous strength of the wife-love and
the wistful allurement of maiden tenderness.

"Does my great big boy wish three lumps of sugar, after his hard tasks?"

"He'll die in the flower of immaturity if he has too many sweets in one
day."

He drew out his memorandum book, opening it to a closely-written page.

"Before the confections, I must hand in my report to the commanding
officer."

"Advance three paces to the front, and hand over the details," and she
added another lump of sugar, with a mischievous twinkle in the blue
eyes.

"Very well, excellency. We transcribed the addresses of Warren's
gangsters from his note-book, and they have all been arrested. The men
we captured in the earlier skirmishes are all languishing in the tombs,
as accomplices in his crime, as well as for their attempts against my
own life. You will be astonished, Helene, at the revelations of his
operations as shown by his bank-books, a translation of that diary and
some of the letters which I took when I burglarized his rooms. I have
sent a code letter to Phil, advising him to confess all, and that
man's testimony adds to the corroboration. I went down to the District
Attorney with a full statement of the facts, leaving nothing unbared.
Like me, he agreed that it were best to let the law take its course,
demanding the full penalty, and saving the honor of a dozen families
who would have been dragged into the case, had not Warren laid himself
liable by the murder of his confederate, Taylor. That young man was an
electrical genius--with his brains misguided by his equally misdirected
employer. There is no chance of a miscarriage of justice, and Warren had
accumulated so much money that many of the victims of his organization
can be reimbursed in full."

"You have handled all this with a suspicious skill for a lazy society
man, with no experience in such matters."

Shirley understood the subtle sarcasm of the remark, but he proceeded
unruffled, to lull her suspicious.

"I only tried to cover the points which meant happiness and peace of
mind to others. It was merely a matter of common or garden horse sense,
as we call it in America. Warren has been systematically robbing the
rich men of New York for three years, under various subterfuges. No
wonder he could afford such gorgeous collections of art, keeping aloof
from his associates in crime. His treasures, like those in many European
museums were bought with blood. It is curious how a complex case like
this smooths itself out so simply when the key is obtained. And you,
Helene, have been the genius to supply that key: my own work has been
merely corroborative!"

He looked at the delicate features of the girl, remembering with a
recurring thrill the margin by which they had escaped death in the
cellar den of the conspirators.

"Cleary and Dick Holloway told me how cleverly you led the men to the
Somerset where you followed my trail through the mole's passage. It was
a frightful risk for you to take: Cleary should have had more sense and
led the way himself."

Helene's lips pursed themselves into a tempting pout.

"Are you not happier that it was I, at that supreme moment?"

"Indeed I am: success was all the sweeter. There is remaining only one
mystery which I must admit is still unsolved in this curious affair. And
that is you. Who are you?"

She parried with the same question.

"I know your name, sir, but you profess to be a society butterfly,
flitting from pleasure to dissipation, and back again. Tell me the
truth, now, if ever."

"Why--gracious, Helene--of all the foolish questions!" He was adorably
boyish in his confusion. She laughed gleefully, like a happy schoolgirl.

"Then, Monty Shirley, my score is better than yours, for I have every
mystery cleared. But while I know all about you, what frightful chances
you are taking with me!"

Shirley reddened, as he burned his finger with the match which had been
raised to the end of his cigarette. He accused her of teasing, and she
glanced happily at the iridiscent solitaire upon the third finger of her
left hand.

"Dear boy, I realize that I understand about you what you cannot fathom
with me. You are not a moth, but your self-sacrifice, and bravery in
this case are professional: you worked on this case as you have on
a hundred others: you are a very original and successful expert
in criminology. And I am not more than half bad at observation and
deduction, myself; now, am I, dear?"

Shirley gracefully admitted defeat, with a question: "Who are you,
Helene? And who is dear old Jack?"

The roses blossomed in her cheeks as she answered: "Jack is a very
sweet boy, ten years older than you in gray hair and the calendar, and
infinitely younger in worldly wisdom and intellect. He is an English
army officer, who was foolish enough to imagine he loved me, foolish
enough to propose every three days for the last three years and foolish
enough to bore me until in self-defense I escaped from his clutches. As
for myself, at least I am not the young woman who can stand staying in
that gaudy theatrical hotel for another day longer. I have done so many
bold, unmaidenly things that you may believe it easy for me. It is not.

"I am truly a horrid, old-time, hoopskirt-minded prude. My first act of
domestic tyranny is to make you find a sedate, prim place for my work
and play, where I may know my own blushes when I see them in the mirror,
and will have less occasion to deserve them!"

"Your work? What is that?"

"It is very hard work--with a typewriter, but not in code. I will not
divulge my name until we tell it to the marriage license clerk. But Dick
Holloway knows me, and I came to this country, partly to see him. I
have written a few plays, which simple as they were, seemed to interest
European audiences and critics. Some of my novels have strangely enough
brought in royalties, despite the publishers! But, I became satiated
with life in England and on the Continent. I came here because I felt
that I needed life in a younger and newer country. I needed an emotional
and physical awakening."

"You have not wasted any time in drowsiness since you reached America."

"No--and all because I went to Holloway's office that fateful morning,
before I saw any one else in New York, to ask about a play which he is
to produce this spring. I confess that it was my first experience as an
actress. Will you forgive my deception?"

Shirley nodded, as he studied the animated face with a new interest. He
admitted to himself that Holloway's prediction had come true--he had met
his match.

"And so, my dear Helene (for such I shall always call you, whether your
really, truly name be Mehitabel, Samantha or Sophronisa) you came
here, went through all these horrors without a complaint, crushing
the independence of my confirmed bachelorhood for the sake of what we
newspaper men call copy?"

Helene nodded demurely.

"Yes, but it was such wonderful 'copy,' Monty boy."

The criminologist scowled over his cigarette, yet he could not feel as
unhappy as he felt this defeat should make him.

"When will the 'copy' be ready for publication, my dear girl. It would
be most interesting, I fancy."

Helene caught his hand, drawing it toward her throbbing heart. Her wet
lips were almost touching his ear, as she confided, whisperingly,
with the blue eyes averted: "Only published in editions de luxe: some
bindings will be with blue ribbons, some with pink. All of them with
flexible backs and gloriously illumined by the Master's brush. The
authors' autographs will be on every copy to prove the collaboration,
and every volume will be a poem in itself.... But there, Montague dear,
I am a novelist--not a fortune-teller!"

"How can I forecast the exact dates of publication?"

End of Project Gutenberg's The Voice on the Wire, by Eustace Hale Ball