Warren’s establishment was a gorgeous one.  To Shirley it was hard to harmonize the character of the man as he had already deduced it with the evident passion for the beautiful.  That such a connoisseur of art objects could harbor in so broad and cultured a mind the machinations of such infamy seemed almost incredible.  The riddle was not new with Reginald Warren’s case:  for morals and “culture” have shown their sociological, economic and even diplomatic independence of each other from the time when the memory of man runneth not!

Shirley’s admiration was shrewdly sensed by his host.  So after a tactful introduction to the self-absorbed merrymakers, now in all stages of stimulated exuberance, he conducted his guest on a tour of inspection about his rooms.

“So, you like etchings?  I want you to see my five Whistlers.  Here is my Fritz Thaulow, and there is my Corot.  This crayon by Von Lenbach is a favorite of mine.”  His black eyes sparkled with pride as he pointed out one gem after another in this veritable storehouse of artistic surprises.  Few of the jolly throng gave evidence of appreciating them:  the man was curiously superior to his associations in education as well as the patent evidence which Shirley now observed of being to the manor born.  Helene Marigold, ensconced in a big library chair, her feet curled under her, pink fingers supporting the oval chin, dreamily watched Shirley’s absorption.  She seemed almost asleep, but her mind drank in each mood that fired the criminologist’s face, as he thoroughly relaxed from his usual bland superiority of mien, to revel in the treasures.

Ivory masterpieces, Hindu carvings, bronzes, landscapes, rare wood-cuts, water colors—­such a harmonious variety he had seldom seen in any private collection.  The library was another thesaurus:  rich bindings encased volumes worthy of their garb.  The books, furthermore, showed the mellowing evidence of frequent use; here was no patron of the instalment editions-de-luxe!

“You like my things,” and Warren’s voice purred almost happily.  There was a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley understood.  The appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his heart.  “My books—­all bound privately, you know, for I hate shop bindings.  Most of them from second-hand stalls, redolent with the personalities of half a hundred readers.  Books are so much more worth reading when they have been read and read again.  Don’t you think so?”

“Yes.  I see your tastes run to the modern school.  Individualism, even morbidity:  Spencer, Nietsche, Schopenhauer, Tolstoi, Kropotkin, Gorky—­They express your thoughts collectively?”

“Yes, but not radically enough.  My entire intellectual life has driven me forward—­I am a disciple of the absolute freedom, the divinity of self, and—­but there I invited you to a joy party, not a university seminar.”

“But the party will grow riper with age,” and Shirley was prone to continue the autopsy.  “You are a university man.  Where did you study?”