“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 they were, seemed to interest European audiences and critics.  Some of my novels have strangely enough brought in royalties, despite the publishers!  But, I became satiated with life in England and on the Continent.  I came here because I felt that I needed life in a younger and newer country.  I needed an emotional and physical awakening.”

“You have not wasted any time in drowsiness since you reached America.”

“No—­and all because I went to Holloway’s office that fateful morning, before I saw any one else in New York, to ask about a play which he is to produce this spring.  I confess that it was my first experience as an actress.  Will you forgive my deception?”