it
lasts. You run along and play--a good way from the fire, or you'll get
more than your fingers burnt. Take their hint and beat it while the
beating's good."

A glint of steel shone from the eyes of the criminologist as he lit
another cigarette and took up his walking-stick.

"Why, Cleary, this is what I call real sport. Why go hunting polar bears
and tigers when we've got all this human game around the Gold Coast of
Manhattan? I'm tired of furs: I want a few scalps. Good-morning."

As Cleary went up the stairway to renew the ginger of the Third Degree
for the two prisoners, he smiled to himself, and muttered:

"The guy ain't such a boob as he looks: he's just a high-class nut. I'd
enjoy it myself if it wasn't my regular work."

At Dick Holloway's office Shirley was greeted with an eager demand for
his report of the former evening's activities. An envious look was on
the face of the theatrical manager.

"Shucks, Monty! It's a shame that all this sport is private stock, and
can't be bottled up and peddled to the public, for they're just crazy
about gangster melodrama. They're paying opera prices for the old time
ten-twent-and-thirt-melodrama, right on Broadway. Hurry up and get the
man and I'll have him dramatized while the craze is rampant."

"Not while I own the copyright," retorted Shirley, "this is one of the
chapters of my life that isn't going to be typewritten, much less the
subject of gate-receipts."

"I'm not so certain of that," and Holloway's smile was quizzical.

"What do you mean? Who is this Helene Marigold? I have a right to know
in a case like this."

"Good intuition, as far as you go. But you're guessing wrong, for she
has nothing to do with my little joke. But why worry about her?" laughed
Holloway. His friend had leaned forward, intensely, clutching his cane,
with an unusually serious look on his face. Holloway had never seen
Shirley take such an interest in any woman before. He arose from
his desk-chair and walked to the broad window, which overlooked the
thronging sidewalks of Broadway.

"Down there is the biggest, busiest street in the world filled with
women of all hues and shades. This is the first time you ever looked so
anxious about any combination of lace, curls, silks and gew-gaws before.
You have been the bright and shining example of indifferent bachelor
freedom which has made me--thrice divorced--so envious of your
unalloyed, unalimonied joy. Don't betray the feet of clay whi