Dick Holloway indulged in an unobserved smile, as he turned to look out of the window, lost for the nonce in mirthful speculation.

CHAPTER VIII

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK

“Dick, you can help me further, with your dramatic knowledge.  I feel in duty bound to tell Miss Marigold that she is risking her life, if she takes up this task.”

Instead of hesitancy, which Shirley half expected, the girl’s face flushed with quickened interest, and her eyes sparkled with enjoyment as he unfolded the situation.  At the mention of Grimsby, Holloway grunted with disgust—­it may have been a variety of professional jealousy.  Who knows?  However, the problem fascinated the mysterious young woman, who blushed, in spite of herself, when Shirley put his blunt question to her.

“And you are willing to assume for a time the character of one of these stage moths, whom rich men of this type pursue and woo, wine, dine and boast about?  Will it interfere with your own work?  Any salary arranged by Mr. Holloway is agreeable, for this unusual task.”

“The game, not the money, is the attraction.  I will be ready when you pronounce my cue.”

“Splendid.  Dick, will you assist Miss Marigold in selecting an attractive apartment in a theatrical hotel this afternoon.  I will call for her at four-thirty, to take her to tea.  She may not know me, at first glance:  that depends upon the help you give me at the Astor.  I will expect you there in an hour.  I haven’t acted since I left the college shows:  with a hundred chances to one against my success, even I am not bored.”

He hurried from the office, and Holloway noted the glow in the girl’s glance which followed his stalwart figure.  Holloway was a good tactician:  there were reasons why he enjoyed this new role of match-maker de luxe, yet he played his hand far more subtly than at poker.  Which was well!

Ensconced in the Astor, Shirley was soon busy before the cheval glass, from which were suspended three photographs of William Grimsby, obtained from a photographic news syndicate.

Coat and waistcoat had been removed, as he discriminatingly applied the dry cosmetics with skill which suggested that he had disguised himself for daylight purposes far more than he would admit.  By the time he had powdered his thick locks with the white pulverized chalk, and donned a pair of horn-rim glasses of amber tint, his whole personality had changed.  The similarity was startling to the prototype who was admitted to the room a few minutes later.

“Why, I beg pardon—­I have come to the wrong suite,” were Grimsby’s apologetic words, as he essayed to retreat.

“You are the first victim of the mirage.  Do you like the caricature?”

“Astounding, my friend!” gasped Grimsby, sinking into the chair.  Shirley drew him to the mirror, to make a closer study of the lines of senility and late hours.  A few delicate touches of purple and blue, some retouching of the nostrils, and he drew on the suit provided by his elder.  Dick Holloway was announced, and Shirley ordered some wine and a dinner for one!  At Grimsby’s surprise, Shirley, smiled indulgently.