Cleary’s opinion of the club man had been gaining in ascendency.

“They may be visitors from another city, but I think the state will keep them here as guests for a nice long time, Cleary.  They say New York is inhospitable to strangers, but we occasionally pay for board and room from the funds of the taxpayers without a kick.  We saved the day for the Van Clefts, all right.  The paper told of a beautiful but quiet funeral ceremony, while the daughter has postponed her marriage for six months.”

Then he recounted the adventure of the exploding car.  Cleary lit his malodorous pipe, and shook his head thoughtfully.

“Young man, you know your own affairs best.  But with all your money, you’d better take to the tall pines yourself, like these old guys in the ‘Lobster Club.’  That’s the advice of a man who’s in the business for money not glory.  This is a bum game.  They’ll get me some day, some of these yeggs or bunk artists that I’ve sent away for recuperation, as the doctors call it.  But I’m doing it for bread and beefsteak, while it lasts.  You run along and play—­a good way from the fire, or you’ll get more than your fingers burnt.  Take their hint and beat it while the beating’s good.”

A glint of steel shone from the eyes of the criminologist as he lit another cigarette and took up his walking-stick.

“Why, Cleary, this is what I call real sport.  Why go hunting polar bears and tigers when we’ve got all this human game around the Gold Coast of Manhattan?  I’m tired of furs:  I want a few scalps.  Good-morning.”

As Cleary went up the stairway to renew the ginger of the Third Degree for the two prisoners, he smiled to himself, and muttered: 

“The guy ain’t such a boob as he looks:  he’s just a high-class nut.  I’d enjoy it myself if it wasn’t my regular work.”

At Dick Holloway’s office Shirley was greeted with an eager demand for his report of the former evening’s activities.  An envious look was on the face of the theatrical manager.

“Shucks, Monty!  It’s a shame that all this sport is private stock, and can’t be bottled up and peddled to the public, for they’re just crazy about gangster melodrama.  They’re paying opera prices for the old time ten-twent-and-thirt-melodrama, right on Broadway.  Hurry up and get the man and I’ll have him dramatized while the craze is rampant.”

“Not while I own the copyright,” retorted Shirley, “this is one of the chapters of my life that isn’t going to be typewritten, much less the subject of gate-receipts.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” and Holloway’s smile was quizzical.

“What do you mean?  Who is this Helene Marigold?  I have a right to know in a case like this.”

“Good intuition, as far as you go.  But you’re guessing wrong, for she has nothing to do with my little joke.  But why worry about her?” laughed Holloway.  His friend had leaned forward, intensely, clutching his cane, with an unusually serious look on his face.  Holloway had never seen Shirley take such an interest in any woman before.  He arose from his desk-chair and walked to the broad window, which overlooked the thronging sidewalks of Broadway.