“A woman loves a man for the boy spirit that she discovers in him:  she loves him out of pity when it dies!” Then she fearsomely changed the current of her thoughts, to complain pathetically of the cold wind!

“There, now, I am so thoughtless,” was his apology, as he stopped the car, to wrap the overcoat more closely about her, and tuck her comfortably in a big fur.  Through the darkened streets of the suburb they raced, entering the silent factory districts, which presaged the nearness of the river.  It was well on toward daybreak before they rolled over the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan.  It was his second day without sleep, but Shirley was sustained by the bizarre nature of the exploit:  he could have kept at the steering wheel for an eternity.

“Are you glad we’re getting back?” he asked.  Helene shook her head, then she answered dreamily.

“Do you remember something from one of Browning’s poems, that I do?  It’s just silly for us, but I understand it better now.”

Shirley surprised her by quoting it, as he looked ahead into the dark street through which they swung, his unswerving hand steady on the wheel: 

    “What if we still ride on, we two,
     With life forever old yet new,
     Changed not in kind, but in degree,
     The instant made eternity,—­
     And heaven just prove that I and she
     Ride, ride together, forever ride?”

A quick flush, not caused by the biting wind, suffused her cheek beneath the remnants of the rouge.  Then she laughed up at him appreciatively.

“Curious how our minds ran that way, and hit the very same poem, wasn’t it?”

Shirley smiled back, as he swung down Fifth Avenue.

“Not so curious after all!”

Soon they drew up before the ornate portal of the California Hotel, where late arrivals were so customary as to cause no comment.  He bade her good-night, words seeming futile after their long hours together.  The drive in the car to the club was short.  Paddy the door man was instructed to send down to Shirley’s own garage for a mechanic to store the car until further orders.  The criminologist had ere this rubbed off his grease paint, so that his appearance was not unusual.  Once in his rooms he treated himself to a piping hot shower, cleaned off the powder from his dark locks, and as he smoked a soothing cigarette, in his bathrobe, studied the mechanism of the gas generator for a few moments.

“That was made by an expert who understands infernal machines with a malevolent genius.  I must look out for him,” he mused.  “Well, I promised Professor MacDonald that I would not sleep until I had come face to face with the voice.  I have fulfilled the vow:  now for forgetfulness.”

He tumbled into bed, but not to oblivion.  For his dreams were disturbed by tantalizing visions of certain sun-gold locks and blue eyes not at all in their simple connection with the business end of the Van Cleft mystery.