The man was visibly panic-stricken, although his superb nerve was fighting hard to cover his terror.  Shirley wondered what news could have fallen into his hand this way.  He watched the envelope, hoping that he would inadvertently drop it.  But no such luck!  Warren carefully folded it and put it with the letter into the breast pocket of his coat.

“My dear fellow, business before indigestion, always!  I am sorry to have you go, but we will try again.  I will go upstairs with you.  Shall I call a taxicab for you?”

Warren expostulated, but the host followed him to the check room.  Unseen by Warren, Shirley inserted a handkerchief from his own pocket into the overcoat pocket of the other with a sleight-of-hand substitution, in the withdrawal of the guest’s small linen square!

Warren rushed to the door.  He sprang into the first taxicab that came along, and disappeared.  Shirley watched the car as it raced away and noticed its number.  He turned to the door man.

“Whose machine was that?  On the regular club stand here?”

“Yes, sir.  A man named Perkins drives it, sir.”

“Will it return here as soon as the fare is taken to the end of the trip?”

“Yes, sir, they have orders for that.  They belong to a gent who supplies cars for our club exclusively, sir.  They are not allowed to take outside passengers.”

“Very good!  You send for me, in my rooms, as soon as the driver of the car shows up.  I want to find out where he went.”

Shirley hurried up in the lift to his own floor.  He went to the door of his room, and tried to open it with his key.  It was bolted from inside!  There came a muffled report from within.  Then he heard a cry, which he recognized as the voice of Chen, the Jap.  He dropped to the floor, listening at the crack—­a scuffle was in progress within!

CHAPTER XXI

A BURGLARY FOR JUSTICE

Shirley rose, and once more applied that gridiron-trained boot of his:  this time to the lock of the door.  Two doses resulted in a complete cure for its obstinacy.  As he rushed into the room, he saw a figure swing out of the window on a dangling rope.  He hesitated—­the desire to chase this intruder to the roof of the club struggled with his duty to the unfortunate Jap, who lay on the floor, where he was being garroted by a burly ruffian in a chauffeur’s habiliments.  He sprang toward his little assistant, and made quick work of the big man.

As he threw the other, with one of his “silencer” twists of the neck cords, the Jap sprang up.  A demoniac anger twisted that usually smiling countenance, and it took all of Shirley’s strength, to wrest away the automatic revolver from the maddened valet, to prevent swift revenge.

“Why, Chen.  He’s caught.  Don’t shoot him now!”

Chen, with a voluble stream of Nagasaki profanity, spluttered in rage, and strove like a bantam rooster to get at his antagonist.  The necessity for quieting him to prevent bloodshed was fatal to the pursuit of the other man, as Shirley realized bitterly.  The servants were running to the room by this time.  The club steward opened the battered door, and Shirley turned to explain.