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 t