tion?"

"The call was from Rector 2190-D. The American Sunday School
Organization, sir--It doesn't answer now; the office must be closed."

Shirley put the instrument down, with a smile on his pursed lips. He
waved a good natured farewell to his friend, as he drew the cap down
over his eyes.

"Look a little happier, Captain. I'll send down some fruit and a special
vintage from our club which has bottled up in it the sunlight of a
dozen years in Southern France. I hope they keep the telephone wires
busy--they may tangle themselves up in their own spider-web!"

Leaving the hospital, he hurried to the hotel. One of his secret
idiosyncracies was a custom of "living around" at a number of hotels,
under aliases. Maintaining pleasant suites in each, he kept full
supplies of linen and garments, while effectively blotting out his own
identity for "doubling" work.

He was known as "Mr. Hepburn" here, and entering the side door he was
subjected to the curious gaze of only one servant, the operator of the
small elevator. Once in the shelter of his quarters he rummaged through
some scrap-books for data--he found it in a Sunday feature story
published a month before in a semi-theatrical paper. It described with
rollicking sarcasm, a gay "millionaire" party which had been given in
Rector's private dining rooms. Among the ridiculed hosts were Van Cleft,
Wellington Serral and Herbert De Cleyster! Here, in some elusive manner,
ran the skein of truth which if followed would lead to the solution of
mystery. He must carve out of this mass of pregnant clues the essentials
upon which to act, as the sculptor chisels the marble of a huge block to
expose the figure of his inspiration, encased there all the time!

"To find out the source of their golden-haired nymphs for this
merry-merry, that is the question! Some stage doorkeeper might be
persuaded to unburden what soul he has left!"

He jotted in his memorandum book the names of the other eight wealthy
men who were pilloried by the journalist. The younger men,
Shirley felt sure, were of that peculiarly Manhattanse type of
hanger-on--well-groomed, happy-go-hellward youths who danced, laughed
and drank well,--so essential to the philanderings of these rich old
Harlequins and their gilded Columbines. As he scribbled, the telephone
of the room tinkled its summons.

He started toward it: then his invaluable intuition prompted him to
walk into the adjoining room, where another instrument st