“My dear lady, no one has discovered the mental secrets of Montague Shirley.  He apparently wastes his life as do other popular society men with much money and more time on their hands.  Yet, somehow, I always feel in his presence as one does when standing on the bow of an ocean liner, with the salt breeze whizzing into your heart.  He is a force of nature, yet he explains nothing:  a thorough man of the world; droll, sarcastic, generous and I believe for democracy he is unequaled by any Tammany politician:  he knows more policemen, dopes, conductors, beggars, chauffeurs, gangsters, bartenders, jobless actors, painters, preachers, anarchists, and all the rest of New York’s flotsam and jetsam than any one in the world.  He is always the polished gentleman, and yet they take him man for man.”

“What does this unusual person do for a living?”

“Nothing but living!”

Her interest was naturally undiminshed by this perfervid tribute, and she clapped her dainty hands together with sudden mirth.

“You know why I came here, and why to you, Mr. Holloway.  You know who I am, and although I answer none of those exorbitant terms except that I am not known by sight along your big street Broadway, why not recommend me for the position?”

“But you, of all people!” Holloway’s face was a study in amazement.  “You can’t tell what wild project he has in view.  Shirley is a wild Indian, in many things you know—­just when you least expect it.  I have known him a dozen years.”

He paused to weigh the matter, and his sense of humor conquered.  He roared with mirth, which was joined in more sedately by the unknown girl.  “That settles it.  You couldn’t start on your campaign in a better way.  You shall be the Lady of Mystery in this story!  I will not breathe a hint of your identity to Shirley, and no one else knows, of course.  What a ripping good joke:  I’m glad you came here the first hour after your landing in New York.”

“What shall I call myself?  I have it—­a romantic name, which will be worth laughing over later—­let me see—­Helene Marigold.  Is that flowery enough?”

“Shirley will be sure you are an actress when he hears that.  Mum is the word, may you never have stage fright and never miss a cue—­Here he comes now!”

The criminologist rushed into the office impetuously, dropping his bag on the floor, and doffing his hat as he beheld the pretty companion of Holloway.

“On time to the minute, as usual, Shirley.  Your note came, and I followed your instructions.  Let me present to you your new star, Miss Helene Marigold, who just disembarked on the steamer from England this morning.  You have secured a young lady who is making all Europe sit up and rub its eyes.  I believe I have at last found a match for you, Prince of the Unexpected!”

Shirley held forth his fervent hand, and was surprised at the almost masculine sincerity with which the delicately gloved fingers returned the pressure.  He looked into the blue eyes with a challenging scrutiny, and received as frank an answer!