The policeman shook the men, but they seemed helpless except to groan and hold their heads in mute agony, dull and apparently unaware of what was going on about them.

“Well, if you don’t want to press the charge of assault?”

“No.  I may have it looked up by my attorney.  Tonight I do not care to take my wife to the stationhouse with me.  They ought to get thirty days, at that.”

Shirley took Helene’s arm, and the officer nodded.

“I’ll send for the wagon, sir.  They’re some pickled.  Good-night.”

As they walked up to the nearest car crossing, Helene turned to him with her surprise unabated.

“What did you do to them, Mr. Shirley?”

“Merely crushed a small vial of Amyl nitrite which I thoughtfully put in my handkerchief this afternoon.  It is a chemical whose fumes are used for restoring people afflicted with heart failure:  with men like these, and the amount of the liquid which I gave them for perfume, the result was the same as complete unconsciousness from drunkenness.—­Science is a glorious thing, Miss Helene.”

CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH SHIRLEY SURPRISES HIMSELF

They reached the hotel without untoward adventure.

“Perhaps we might find a little corner in that dining-room I saw this afternoon, with an obliging waiter to bring us something to eat.  Shall we try?  I need a lot of coffee, for I am going down to the dock of the Yacht Club to await developments.”

“You big silly boy,” she cautioned, with a maternal note in her voice which was very sweet to bachelor ears from such a maiden mouth, “you must not let Nature snap.  You have a wonderful physique but you must go home to bed.”

“It can’t be done—­I want to hear about your little visit to the apartment, and the story of the diary.  I’ll ask the clerk.”

A bill glided across the register of the hotel desk, and the greeter promised to attend to the club sandwiches himself.  He led them to a cosey table, in the deserted room, and started out to send the bell-boy to a nearby lunchroom.

“Just a minute please,—­if any one calls up Miss Marigold, don’t let them know she has returned.  I have something important to say, without interruption:  you understand?”

“Yes, I get you, sir,” and the droll part was that with a familiarity generated of the hotel arts he did understand even better than Shirley or Helene.  He had seen many other young millionaires and golden-haired actresses.  Shirley looked across the table into the astral blue of those gorgeous eyes.  Certain unbidden, foolish words strove to liberate themselves from his stubborn lips.

“I am a consummate idiot!” was all that escaped, and Helene looked her surprise.

“Why, have you made a mistake?”

“I hope not.  But tell me of Warren’s mistake.”