“Isn’t this a ripping good situation for a novel?” she began.

“Yes, too good at present, Miss Marigold.  There are too many, important people to be affected for it ever to be given to the public, for the identities would all be exposed ruthlessly.  Besides, no one would believe it:  it seems too improbable, being real life.  It will be more improbable before we finish the adventure, I suspect.  Can I trust your discretion to keep it secret?  You know, I have a deal of skepticism about the best of women.”

Helene reddened under that keen glance, and he saw that he had offended her.

“I beg your pardon:  I know that we shall work it out together, with absolute mutual trust.”

Such an earnest vibrance was in his voice that somehow she was reminded of another voice:  her mind went back to the neglected letter to Jack.  What could have caused her to be so remiss?  She would not let herself dwell on the subject—­instead, with a surprising deftness, she caught up Shirley’s own cue, for a staggering question of her own.

“Are you sure that you have absolutely confided in me?  Did you start at the beginning, when you told the story to-day.”

“What do you mean?” and Shirley caught the glance sharply.

“Your unusual rapidity of action, Mr. Shirley, for a mere interested friend!  It is queer how wonderfully your mind has connected this work, and the various accidental happenings, to evolve this clever ruse in which I am to assist.  It doesn’t seem so amateurish as you would make it.  You seem mysterious to me.”

“Do you think I am the voice?  Here is a chance for real detective work, if you can double the game, and capture me?” was the laughing retort.  “I don’t believe you trust me.”

The girl stood up before him, and after one deep look, her eyes fell before his.  Those exquisite lashes sent a tiny flutter through the case-hardened heart of the club man, despite his desperate determination to be a Stoic.

“I do trust you,” the voice was impetuous, almost petulant.  “You are a real man:  I merely give you credit for being better than the class of rich young men of whom you pretend to be an absolute type.  But there, I waste words and time.  Is my costume for this little opera boufe satisfactory to you?  Do you like my warpaint and battle armor?”

She stood before him, a glorious bird of paradise.  The wanton display of a maddening curve of slender ankle, through the slash of the clinging gown imparted just the needed allurement to stamp her as a Vestal of the temple of Madness.  The cunning simplicity of the draping over her shoulders—­luminous with the iridiscent gleam of ivory skin beneath, accentuated by the voluptuous beauty of her youthful bosom—­the fleeting change of colors and contours as she slowly turned about in this maddening soul-trap of silk and laces—­all these were not lost on the senses of Shirley.  As the depths of those blue eyes opened before his gaze, a mad, a ridiculous aching to crush her in his arms, surprised the professional consulting criminologist!  For this swift instant, all memory of the Van Cleft case, of every other problem, was driven from his mind, as a blinding blast of seething desire surged about him.