Shirley put the instrument down, with a smile on his pursed lips.  He waved a good natured farewell to his friend, as he drew the cap down over his eyes.

“Look a little happier, Captain.  I’ll send down some fruit and a special vintage from our club which has bottled up in it the sunlight of a dozen years in Southern France.  I hope they keep the telephone wires busy—­they may tangle themselves up in their own spider-web!”

Leaving the hospital, he hurried to the hotel.  One of his secret idiosyncracies was a custom of “living around” at a number of hotels, under aliases.  Maintaining pleasant suites in each, he kept full supplies of linen and garments, while effectively blotting out his own identity for “doubling” work.

He was known as “Mr. Hepburn” here, and entering the side door he was subjected to the curious gaze of only one servant, the operator of the small elevator.  Once in the shelter of his quarters he rummaged through some scrap-books for data—­he found it in a Sunday feature story published a month before in a semi-theatrical paper.  It described with rollicking sarcasm, a gay “millionaire” party which had been given in Rector’s private dining rooms.  Among the ridiculed hosts were Van Cleft, Wellington Serral and Herbert De Cleyster!  Here, in some elusive manner, ran the skein of truth which if followed would lead to the solution of mystery.  He must carve out of this mass of pregnant clues the essentials upon which to act, as the sculptor chisels the marble of a huge block to expose the figure of his inspiration, encased there all the time!

“To find out the source of their golden-haired nymphs for this merry-merry, that is the question!  Some stage doorkeeper might be persuaded to unburden what soul he has left!”

He jotted in his memorandum book the names of the other eight wealthy men who were pilloried by the journalist.  The younger men, Shirley felt sure, were of that peculiarly Manhattanse type of hanger-on—­well-groomed, happy-go-hellward youths who danced, laughed and drank well,—­so essential to the philanderings of these rich old Harlequins and their gilded Columbines.  As he scribbled, the telephone of the room tinkled its summons.

He started toward it:  then his invaluable intuition prompted him to walk into the adjoining room, where another instrument stood on a small table, handy to the bed.  Only two people could possibly know he was there.  Van Cleft could not have arrived, as yet.  The other bell jingled impatiently, but Shirley finally heard the voice of the switch-board girl.

“I’m trying to get you on the other wire, sir.  There’s a call.”

“Don’t connect me,” he hurriedly ordered, “except to open the switch, so I may listen.  If I hang up without a word, tell the party I will be back in twenty minutes.”