Shirley insisted, with a duty soother of silver, but the negro returned in a few minutes, shaking his head.  Shirley ordered him to telephone the nearest hacking-stand.  Then followed another delay, without result.

“Come, Miss Helene, there is method in this.  Let us walk, as it seems to have been planned we should.”

“Is it wise?  Why put yourself in their net?”

For reply, he placed in her hand the walking stick which he had so carefully guarded when they entered the apartment.  It was heavier than a policeman’s nightstick.  As he retook it, she observed the straightening line of his lips.

“As the French say, ‘We shall see what we shall see.’  Please walk a little behind me, so that my right arm may be free.”

It was after two, and the street was dark.  Shirley had noted an arc-light on the corner when he had entered the building—­now it was extinguished.  A man lurched forward as they turned into Sixth Avenue, his eyes covered by a dark cap.

“Say gent!  Give a guy that’s down an’ out the price of a beef stew?  I got three pennies an’ two more’ll fix me.”

“No!”

“Aw, gent, have a heart!” The man was persistent, drawing closer, as Shirley walked an with his companion, into the increasing darkness, away from the corner.  Another figure appeared from a dark doorway.

“I’m broke too, Mister.  Kin yer help a poor war refugee on a night like this?”

Shirley slipped his left hand inside his coat pocket and drew out a handkerchief to the surprise of the men.  He suddenly drew Helene back against the wall, and stood between her and the two men.

“What do you thugs want?” snapped the criminologist, as he clenched the cane tightly and held the handkerchief in his left hand.  There was no reply.  The men realized that he knew their purpose—­one dropped to a knee position as the other sprang forward.  The famous football toe shot forward with more at stake than ever in the days when the grandstands screeched for a field goal.  At the same instant he swung the loaded cane upon the shoulders of the upright man, missing his head.

The second man swung a blackjack.

The first, with a bleeding face staggered to his feet.

The handkerchief went up to the mouth of the active assailant, and to Helene’s astonishment, he sank back with a moan.  Shirley pounced upon his mate, and after a slight tussle, applied the handkerchief with the same benumbing effect.  Then he rolled it up and tossed it far from him.

He took a police whistle from his pocket and blew it three times.  His assailants lay quietly on the ground, so that when the officer arrived he found an immaculately garbed gentleman dusting off his coat shoulder, and looking at his watch.

“What is it, sir?” he cried.

“A couple of drunks attacked me, after I wouldn’t give them a handout.  Then they passed away.  You won’t need my complaint —­look at them—­”