e voice? Here is a chance for real detective work,
if you can double the game, and capture me?" was the laughing retort. "I
don't believe you trust me."

The girl stood up before him, and after one deep look, her eyes fell
before his. Those exquisite lashes sent a tiny flutter through the
case-hardened heart of the club man, despite his desperate determination
to be a Stoic.

"I do trust you," the voice was impetuous, almost petulant. "You are a
real man: I merely give you credit for being better than the class of
rich young men of whom you pretend to be an absolute type. But there,
I waste words and time. Is my costume for this little opera boufe
satisfactory to you? Do you like my warpaint and battle armor?"

She stood before him, a glorious bird of paradise. The wanton display
of a maddening curve of slender ankle, through the slash of the clinging
gown imparted just the needed allurement to stamp her as a Vestal of
the temple of Madness. The cunning simplicity of the draping over her
shoulders--luminous with the iridiscent gleam of ivory skin beneath,
accentuated by the voluptuous beauty of her youthful bosom--the fleeting
change of colors and contours as she slowly turned about in this
maddening soul-trap of silk and laces--all these were not lost on the
senses of Shirley. As the depths of those blue eyes opened before his
gaze, a mad, a ridiculous aching to crush her in his arms, surprised
the professional consulting criminologist! For this swift instant, all
memory of the Van Cleft case, of every other problem, was driven from
his mind, as a blinding blast of seething desire surged about him.

Then the old resolution, the conquering will of the man of one purpose,
beat back the flames of this threatening conflagration. His eyes
narrowed, his hands dropped to his side, and he squinted at her with the
frigid dissective gaze of an artist studying the curves of a model.

"You must rouge your cheeks more, blue your eyelids and redden your lips
even yet. Then be generous with the powder--and that wonderful perfume."

An inscrutable smile played about the sensitive lips, as Helene turned
to her dressing-table. Shirley stood with his face to the window; he did
not observe it, nor would he have understood its menace to his own peace
of mind. Helene, however, did. She was a woman.

"May I smoke a cigarette? I am afraid I am almost a fiend, for I seem to
crave the foolish comfort that I imagine they give, in times of