“I’ll take a chance at that,” called back O’Connor as he jumped into his car and directed, “Headquarters, quick.”

As the car disappeared, Kennedy filled his lungs with air as if reluctant to leave the drive.  “Our constitutional,” he remarked, “is abruptly at an end, Walter.”

Then he laughed, as he looked about him.

“What a place in which to plot a raid on Danfield’s Vesper Club!  Why, the nurse-maids have hardly got the children all in for supper and bed.  It’s incongruous.  Well, I must go over to the laboratory and get some things ready to put in that van with the men.  Meet me about half-past seven, Walter, up in the room, all togged up.  We’ll dine at the Cafe Riviera to-night in style.  And, by the way, you’re quite a man about town—­you must know someone who can introduce us into the Vesper Club.”

“But, Craig,” I demurred, “if there is any rough work as a result, it might queer me with them.  They might object to being used—­”

“Oh, that will be all right.  I just want to look the place over and lose a few chips in a good cause.  No, it won’t queer any of your Star connections.  We’ll be on the outside when the time comes for anything to happen.  In fact I shouldn’t wonder if your story would make you all the more solid with the sports.  I take all the responsibility; you can have the glory.  You know they like to hear the inside gossip of such things, after the event.  Try it.  Remember, at seven-thirty.  We’ll be a little late at dinner, but never mind; it will be early enough for the club.”

Left to my own devices I determined to do a little detective work on my own account, and not only did I succeed in finding an acquaintance who agreed to introduce us at the Vesper Club that night about nine o’clock, but I also learned that Percival DeLong was certain to be there that night, too.  I was necessarily vague about Kennedy, for fear my friend might have heard of some of his exploits, but fortunately he did not prove inquisitive.

I hurried back to our apartment and was in the process of transforming myself into a full-fledged boulevardier, when Kennedy arrived in an extremely cheerful frame of mind.  So far, his preparations had progressed very favorably, I guessed, and I was quite elated when he complimented me on what I had accomplished in the meantime.

“Pretty tough for the fellows who are condemned to ride around in that van for four mortal hours, though,” he said as he hurried into his evening clothes, “but they won’t be riding all the time.  The driver will make frequent stops.”

I was so busy that I paid little attention to him until he had nearly completed his toilet.  I gave a gasp.

“Why, whatever are you doing?” I exclaimed as I glanced into his room.

There stood Kennedy arrayed in all the glory of a sharp-pointed moustache and a goatee.  He had put on evening clothes of decidedly Parisian cut, clothes which he had used abroad and had brought back with him, but which I had never known him to wear since he came back.  On a chair reposed a chimney-pot hat that would have been pronounced faultless on the “continong,” but was unknown, except among impresarios, on Broadway.