e bell was answered by Shine Taylor's startled face. Warren stood
behind him. The surprise of the pair amused Shirley, but their composure
bespoke trained self-control.

"I'm sorry to be late," was the criminologist's greeting. "But I came
up to apologize for not being able to bring Miss Marigold. We missed
connections somewhere, and I couldn't find her."

"I am so pleased to have you with us anyway. We'll try to get along
without her--" but Warren was interrupted to his discomfiture.

A silvery laugh came from the hallway behind him. Helene Marigold waved
a champagne glass at Shirley.

"There's my tardy escort now. I'm here, Shirley old top! Te, he! You see
I played a little joke on you this afternoon and eloped with a handsomer
man than you." She leaned unsteadily against the door post and waved
a white hand at him as she coaxed. "Come on in, old dear, and don't be
cross now with your little Bonbon Tootems!"

Taylor and Warren exchanged glances, for this was an unexpected sally.
But they were prompt in their effusive cordiality, as they assisted
Shirley in removing his overcoat, and hanging his hat with those of the
other guests. He placed his cane against the hall tree, and followed his
host into the jollified apartment. He did not overlook the swift glide
of Shine's hand into each of his overcoat pockets in the brief interval.
Here was a skilful "dip"--Shirley, however, had taken care that the
pickpocket would find nothing to worry him in the overcoat.

Warren's establishment was a gorgeous one. To Shirley it was hard to
harmonize the character of the man as he had already deduced it with
the evident passion for the beautiful. That such a connoisseur of art
objects could harbor in so broad and cultured a mind the machinations
of such infamy seemed almost incredible. The riddle was not new with
Reginald Warren's case: for morals and "culture" have shown their
sociological, economic and even diplomatic independence of each other
from the time when the memory of man runneth not!

Shirley's admiration was shrewdly sensed by his host. So after a tactful
introduction to the self-absorbed merrymakers, now in all stages of
stimulated exuberance, he conducted his guest on a tour of inspection
about his rooms.

"So, you like etchings? I want you to see my five Whistlers. Here is my
Fritz Thaulow, and there is my Corot. This crayon by Von Lenbach is a
favorite of mine." His black eyes sparkled with pride as he pointed