and without enough will-power to battle against the problems of honesty in work.  It is easy enough to succeed if a man is clever and unscrupulous without a shred of generosity.  The hard problem is to be affectionate, human, and conquer every-day battles by remaining actively honest, when your rivals are not straight.  The born crook is safer from prison than the weakling of the first class.”  He looked down at the coffee, and then continued.

“I do not believe all these young men are in this curious plot.  They are merely the small fry of the fishing banks:  they are petty rascals, with occasional big game.  But somewhere, behind this sinister machine, is a guiding hand on the throttle, a brain which is profound, an eye which is all-seeing and a heart as cold as an Antartic mountain.  There is the exceptional type of criminal who is greedy—­for money and its luxurious possibilities; selfish—­with regard for no other heart in the world; crafty—­with the cunning of an Apache, enjoying the thrill of crime and cruelty; refined and vainglorious—­with pride in his skill to thwart justice and confidence in his ability to continually broaden the scope of his work.  Crime is the ruling passion of this unknown man.  And the way to catch him is by using that passion as a bait upon the hook.  I am the wriggling little angle worm who will dangle before his eyes to-night.  But I do not expect to land him—­I merely purpose to learn his identity, to draw the net of the law about him, in such a way as to keep the Grimsby and Van Cleft names from the case.”

“And how can that be done?”

“That, young lady, is my ‘fatal secret.’  The subplot developing within my mind is still nebulous with me,—­you would lose all interest, as would I, if you knew what was going to happen.  But the time has passed, and now we can go to the theatre.  I bought the tickets by messenger this afternoon.  I will let you do the talking to the chauffeur and the usher.”

They left the tea-room, the last guests out.

It was a touching sight to see the elderly gentleman supported on one side by a fat French waiter, and on the opposite, by the solicitous girl.  The old Civil War wound was unusually troublesome.

CHAPTER X

WHEN IT’S DARK IN THE PARK

At the entrance of the restaurant the starter tooted his shrill whistle, and a driver began to crank his automobile in the waiting line of cars.  According to the rules of the taxi stands he was next in order.  But, as is frequently the custom in the hotly contested district of “good fares” another car “cut in” from across the street.  This taxi swung quickly around and drew up before the waiting criminologist.

Grunting and mumbling, as though still deep in his cups, Monty allowed himself to be half pushed, half lifted into the car by the attendant.  Helene followed him.  “Winter Garden,” she directed, and the machine sped away, while the thwarted driver in the rear sent a volley of anathemas after his successful competitor.