“Yes, let him dream on,” laughed Helene, with a shrill giggle.  “When he makes that extra million he can star me on Broadway, in my own show.  He, he!”

“You’ll have to spend half of it at John the Barber’s getting your voice marceled and your face manicured,” snarled Pinkie.  “Come, Reg, and dance with me:  these bounders bore me.”

“Run along, Pinkie, and fox-trot your grouch away with Shine Taylor.  Here comes the wine I ordered—­What’s your name, girlie?  Where did you meet Grimsby?”

“Oh, we’re old friends,” and Helene maliciously spilled a bottle over the interrogator’s waistcoat, as she reached forward to shake his hand.  “My name’s Bonbon, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you my real name, anyway.  Who are you?”

“I’m not Neptune,” he retorted, as he mopped the bubbles with a napkin.  “You’ve started in badly.”  Shirley mentally disagreed.  His stupor still obsessed him, but he noted with interest that Warren paid the check for his bottle with a new one-hundred dollar bill.  Warren could elicit nothing from Helene but silly laughter, and so he arose impatiently, as Shine Taylor returned to whisper something in his ear.  “I must be getting back to my apartment.  Bring Grimsby up to it to-night:  a little bromo will bring him back to the land of the living.  I’ll have a jolly crowd there—­top floor of the Somerset, on Fifty-sixth Street, you know, near Sixth Avenue.  Come up after the show.”

“We’re going to the Winter Garden,” suggested Helene, at a nudge from Shirley, and Warren nodded.

“I’ll try to see you later, anyway.  Goodbye!”

Losing interest in the proceedings, as the time for reckoning the bill approached, the other gallants followed these two.  Alone, again, Shirley ordered some black coffee, and smiled at his assistant.

“He told the truth for once.”

“What do you mean?”

“He will try to see us later.  That man is a member of the murderous clan whom we seek.  ‘To-night is the night’ for the exit of William Grimsby—­but, perhaps we may have a stage wait which will surprise them.”

Gradually the guests thinned out in the tea-room, but Shirley cautiously waited until the last.

“Do you believe these young men are all members of the gang?” asked the girl.  “Why do you suppose these men are all criminals?  They surely look a bad lot.”

“There are two general reasons why men go wrong.  One is hard luck, aided by tempting opportunity—­they hope to make a success out of failure, and then keep on the straight path for the rest of their lives.  Such men are the absconders, the forgers, the bank-wreckers, and even the petty thieves.  But once branded with the prison bars and stripes, they seldom find it possible to turn against the tide in which they find themselves:  so they become habitual offenders.  They are the easiest criminals to detect.  The second class are the born crooks, who are lazy, sharp-witted