“The hooks are cleaned, with fresh bait upon them,” soliloquized Shirley, as he went down the dark stoop.  “Now for a little laboratory work on the wherefore of the why!”

Although long after midnight, he numbered among his acquaintanceship, many whom he could find far from Slumber-land.  His steps led to the apartment of a certain theatrical manager, whom he found engaged in a lively tournament of the chips, jousting with two leading men, one playwright, a composer and a merchant prince.  The latter, of course, was winning.  The host, contributing both chips and bottled cheer, was far from optimistic until the arrival of the club man.

“A live one abaft the mizzen!” exclaimed Dick Holloway, “Here’s Shirley sent by Heaven to join us.  After all I hope to pay my next month’s rent.”

Noisily welcomed by the victims of mercantile prowess, he apologetically declined to flirt with Dame Fortune, pleading a business purpose.

“Business, Monty!  By the shade of Shakspeare!  I never knew you to look at business, except to prevent it running you down like a Fourth Avenue mail bus.”

“It is in the interest of science,” said Shirley, drawing the manager aside, “an experiment—­”

“Fudge on science.  You interrupt a game at this time of night!”

“But it means money.  I am willing to pay.”

“Ah, Monty, money should never come between friends, and so I retract:  with three failures this season, because the public doesn’t appreciate art.”

“It’s about moving pictures.  I know that you have floated a syndicate for big productions.  Do you work night and day?”

“An investment?  Heaven bless you!  Come into my bedroom and we’ll arrange things of course, we work at night.  Just this minute they are producing the ‘Bartered Bride’ in six reels and eighteen thrills a foot.  A magnificently equipped studio, the public yelling for more how much have you?”

“Not so fast, Dick.  It’s merely some special work tonight, what you would call trick photography.  I need a photographer, some lights, a little space, a microscopic lens and the complete developing during the night.  And, I’ll pay cash, as I have done with some suspicious poker losses in this temple of the muses on bygone evenings.  Which, I may urge with gentle sarcasm is more than I have frequently received at your hands.”

“Touche!” laughed Holloway.  “I’ll write a note to the studio manager—­he’s there now, and will do what you want.  You could have your picture completed by morning with a little financial coaxing applied in the right place.  Come to the library table.  Go on with the game, boys, it will save me a little.”

The potentate of dry goods was drawing in his winnings, as Shirley leaned over Holloway’s shoulder to dictate the missive.  Suddenly a revolver shot rang out from the window, and a bullet crashed into the wall behind Shirley’s head.