But Miss Gwendolyn was too busy talking to the Milwaukee drummer in Room 72 to formulate a logical reason.  Shirley and Holloway improved the time by taking the elevator to the top floor where Helene greeted them at the door of her pretty apartment.  She welcomed them happily, declaring it had been a lonesome morning.

“Weren’t you resting from that long thrill of last night, in which you starred?” asked Holloway.

“It was too thrilling for me to sleep:  I know I look a perfect frump, this morning.  I tossed on the pillow, watching the dawn over your towering New York roofs, so nervous and almost miserable.  But, with company, it’s all right again.”

Holloway laughed inwardly at the warmth of the glance which she bestowed upon Shirley.  From the angle of an audience, he was beginning to observe a phase of this double play of personalities which was unseen by either of the participants.  Two sleepless nights, after such a first evening together, and what then?  He imagined the denouement, with a growing enjoyment of his vantage-point as the game advanced.

“To-day, I am reversing the usual progress of history,” said Shirley, as he sat down in the window-seat.  “From second juvenility I am returning to the first.  In other words, I wish to become your adoring suitor in the role of Montague Shirley.”

“I don’t understand,” and her eyes widened in wonder, not without an accompanying blush which did not escape Holloway.

“No longer a lamb in sheep’s clothing, I want to entertain you, without the halo of William Grimsby’s millions.  I want to take tea with these gentle-voiced cut-throats, who after my warning to-day, are directing their attention to me.”  He narrated the narrow escape from death in the racing-car.  Helene’s eyes darkened with an uncertainty which he had hardly expected.  Perhaps she would refuse to carry out their compact along these dangerous lines.

“Do you feel it wise to place yourself beneath this new menace?”

“The sword of Damocles is over me now, I know.  To run would be a confession of weakness and open the field for his further activities, with the rear-guard continuously exposed.  There is nothing like the personal equation.  I will call at five this afternoon, if you are willing, Miss Marigold?”

“I will fight it out to the end,” and she placed her warm hand firmly within his own.  The two friends departed, Shirley retracing his steps to the club where many things were to be studied and planned.  His system of debit and credit records of facts known and needed, was one which brought finite results.  As he smoked and pondered at his ease, a tapping on the study door aroused him from his vagrant speculations.  At his call, a respectful Japanese servant presented a note, just left by a messenger-boy.  He tore the envelope and read it.

“Montague Shirley:—­The third time is finis.  As a friend you accomplished the purpose you sought.  There is no grudge against you.  Why seek one?  It is fatal for you to remain in the city.  Leave while you have time.”