“And what was that language?”

“It was a code message, which I typed out on this Remwood machine here, by the system you told me.  It was slow work, but I finished it and sent it over to the club, knowing Warren would be with you.  I really don’t know what good the message would do.  But being an illogical woman, and a descendant of Pandora, I thought it would be amusing to open the Pandora’s box and let all the little devils loose, just to see the glitter of their wings!”

Shirley caught her hands delightedly.

“You bully girl!  Nothing could have happened better.  I’ll improve my time now, by visiting Mr. Warren’s apartment, impolite as it is without an invitation.  And then I think I will go calling in that little cave of the winds in the rear of his art collection, on the other street.”

“But, Monty—­I Mean, Mr. Shirley,” and a rosy embarrassment overcame her, “you will put your head into the lion’s mouth once too often.  Why not wait until you get him under lock and key?”

“My dear girl, we will telephone my club and talk to the door man.  I think that he may be under lock and key by this time, in a manner you little suspect.  Let me have the number.”

He went to the instrument on her dressing-table.  The club was soon reached, and Dan the door man was answering his eager question.

“Yes, sir, the taxi has come back, sir.”

“Send the chauffeur to the wire.  I want to talk to him,” said Shirley.  The man was soon speaking.  “What address did you take that gentleman to, my man?”

“Why, sir, I started out for the Battery, but sir, a terrible thing happened.”

“What was it?”

“The gentleman was overcome with an ep’leptic stroke or somethin’ like that.  He pounded on the winder behind me, and when I stopped me car, and looked in he was down an’ out.  I was on Thirty-third Street and Fift’ Avenue at the time, so I calls a cop, and he orders me to run ’im over to Bellevue.  He’s there now, sir.  He ain’t hardly breathin’, sir.  It’s terrible!”

“Too bad, I must go and call, to see if I can help him!” was Shirley’s remark as he hung up the receiver.  He repeated the news to Helene.  Her eyes sparkled, as she said:  “Ah, those symptoms resemble the ones you told me which came from that amo-amas-amat-citron, or whatever it was.”

“Not quite such a loving lemon, Miss Marigold,” he chuckled.  “Amyl nitrite.  The same soothing syrup which quieted our would-be robbers on Sixth Avenue, that night when we left his apartment.  It will wear off in about three hours.  I had a little glass container folded in my own handkerchief, which I put in his overcoat pocket as a parting souvenir, crushing it as I did so.  I reasoned that undue anxiety which he displayed might cause him to mop his brow, close to that student-duel scar.  One smell of the chemical on that handkerchief, in the quantity which I gave, was enough to quiet his worries.  Now for the Somerset Apartment.”