to pay."

"Ah, Monty, money should never come between friends, and so I retract:
with three failures this season, because the public doesn't appreciate
art."

"It's about moving pictures. I know that you have floated a syndicate
for big productions. Do you work night and day?"

"An investment? Heaven bless you! Come into my bedroom and we'll arrange
things of course, we work at night. Just this minute they are producing
the 'Bartered Bride' in six reels and eighteen thrills a foot. A
magnificently equipped studio, the public yelling for more how much have
you?"

"Not so fast, Dick. It's merely some special work tonight, what you
would call trick photography. I need a photographer, some lights, a
little space, a microscopic lens and the complete developing during the
night. And, I'll pay cash, as I have done with some suspicious poker
losses in this temple of the muses on bygone evenings. Which, I may
urge with gentle sarcasm is more than I have frequently received at your
hands."

"Touche!" laughed Holloway. "I'll write a note to the studio
manager--he's there now, and will do what you want. You could have your
picture completed by morning with a little financial coaxing applied in
the right place. Come to the library table. Go on with the game, boys,
it will save me a little."

The potentate of dry goods was drawing in his winnings, as Shirley
leaned over Holloway's shoulder to dictate the missive. Suddenly a
revolver shot rang out from the window, and a bullet crashed into the
wall behind Shirley's head.

His hand, idly dropped into his overcoat pocket, intuitively closed
around his automatic revolver. A dark silhouette was outlined against
the gray luminosity cast up by the lights of Broadway, half a block from
the window. Through the opening another belching flame shot forth, to
be answered by the criminologist's weapon, barking like a miltraileuse.
They heard a stifled cry, and as Shirley ran forward, he exclaimed with
disappointment.

"He's escaped down the fire-escape and through that skylight."

He faced about to smile grimly at the curious scene within. The
playwright had taken refuge among the brass andirons of the big empty
fireplace. The matinee heroes were under chairs, and Holloway behind the
mahogany buffet. From the direction of the stairway came shrill cries
from the speeding merchant, softening in intensity as he neared the
street level.

"The battle's over!" exclaimed Holloway. "I don't