Shirley nodded, as he studied the animated face with a new interest.  He admitted to himself that Holloway’s prediction had come true—­he had met his match.

“And so, my dear Helene (for such I shall always call you, whether your really, truly name be Mehitabel, Samantha or Sophronisa) you came here, went through all these horrors without a complaint, crushing the independence of my confirmed bachelorhood for the sake of what we newspaper men call copy?”

Helene nodded demurely.

“Yes, but it was such wonderful ‘copy,’ Monty boy.”

The criminologist scowled over his cigarette, yet he could not feel as unhappy as he felt this defeat should make him.

“When will the ‘copy’ be ready for publication, my dear girl.  It would be most interesting, I fancy.”

Helene caught his hand, drawing it toward her throbbing heart.  Her wet lips were almost touching his ear, as she confided, whisperingly, with the blue eyes averted:  “Only published in editions de luxe:  some bindings will be with blue ribbons, some with pink.  All of them with flexible backs and gloriously illumined by the Master’s brush.  The authors’ autographs will be on every copy to prove the collaboration, and every volume will be a poem in itself ....  But there, Montague dear, I am a novelist—­not a fortune-teller!”

“How can I forecast the exact dates of publication?”