Miss Winslow, by the way, was rather closely guarded by a duenna-like aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey, who at that time had achieved a certain amount of notoriety by a crusade which she had organized against gambling in society.  She had reached that age when some women naturally turn toward righting the wrongs of humanity, and, in this instance, as in many others, humanity did not exactly appreciate it.

“How are you, McBirney?” greeted Garrick, as he met his old friend, then, turning to young Warrington, added:  “Have you had a car stolen?”

“Have I?” chimed in the youth eagerly, and with just a trace of nervousness.  “Worse than that.  I can stand losing a big nine-thousand-dollar Mercedes, but—­but—­you tell it, McBirney.  You have the facts at your tongue’s end.”

Garrick looked questioningly at the detective.

“I’m very much afraid,” responded McBirney slowly, “that this theft about caps the climax of motor-car stealing in this city.  Of course, you realize that the automobile as a means of committing crime and of escape has rendered detection much more difficult to-day than it ever was before.”  He paused.  “There’s been a murder done in or with or by that car of Mr. Warrington’s, or I’m ready to resign from the profession!”

McBirney had risen in the excitement of his revelation, and had handed Garrick what looked like a discharged shell of a cartridge.

Garrick took it without a word, and turned it over and over critically, examining every side of it, and waiting for McBirney to resume.  McBirney, however, said nothing.

“Where did you find the car?” asked Garrick at length, still examining the cartridge.  “We haven’t found it,” replied the detective with a discouraged sigh.

“Haven’t found it?” repeated Garrick.  “Then how did you get this cartridge—­or, at least why do you connect it with the disappearance of the car?”

“Well,” explained McBirney, getting down to the story, “you understand Mr. Warrington’s car was insured against theft in a company which is a member of our association.  When it was stolen we immediately put in motion the usual machinery for tracing stolen cars.”

“How about the police?” I queried.

McBirney looked at me a moment—­I thought pityingly.  “With all deference to the police,” he answered indulgently, “it is the insurance companies and not the police who get cars back—­usually.  I suppose it’s natural.  The man who loses a car notifies us first, and, as we are likely to lose money by it, we don’t waste any time getting after the thief.”

“You have some clew, then?” persisted Garrick.

McBirney nodded.

“Late this afternoon word came to me that a man, all alone in a car, which, in some respects tallied with the description of Warrington’s, although, of course, the license number and color had been altered, had stopped early this morning at a little garage over in the northern part of New Jersey.”