Helene was still asleep when Shirley stopped the engine of the taxi before a stately Colonial mansion seated back among the pines of a beautiful Long Island estate. They had been driving for more than an hour. The girl stirred languorously as he strove to awaken her. She murmured drowsily:

“No, Jack, dear. Emphatically no. Let's not talk about it any more, dear boy.”

“Who can Jack be?” and a surprising pang shot through Montague Shirley's heart. “Jack, dear! Well, and what's it my business. She is a stranger. She lives her life and I mine. But, at any rate, that settles some silly things I've been thinking. I'm less awake than she is.”

This time he tried with better success, and Helene rubbed her eyes, with hands stiffened by the brisk bite of the chill wind. She gazed at the dimly lit house, at the big figure beside her, as Shirley sprang to the ground—then remembered it all, and trembled despite herself.

“Oh, it's you, Mr. Shirley,” and she summoned up a little throaty laugh, as she arose stiffly. “What a queer place to be in!”

“We are a long way from New York's white lights, Miss Marigold. This is the country home of a good old friend of mine. You can remain here for the rest of the night, as his wife's guest. To-morrow, when you are rested, he can send you to the city in one of his cars.”

“You are the most curious man in two continents. I am bewildered. First, you kidnap a chauffeur and privateer his car, then me. Now you besiege a friend and wish to leave me on his doorstep as a foundling.”

“I'm sorry—it's the exigency of war! We must finish what we started. This is the only place I know where I could thoroughly hide my trail. We must wake up Jim, but first I will have a look at our guest.”

Shirley walked around the car, shooting the beam from his pocket flashlight in through the open window of the taxi, to be met by the wicked black eyes of his prisoner, who uttered volumes of unpronounceable hatred.

“You are still with us, little bright eyes. A pleasant trip, I trust? I hope you found the air good—I tried to improve the ventilation for your benefit, as well as my own.” Only a subdued gurgle answered him.

“Oh, what will they think of me—in this immodest gown, with this paint on my face, and at this hour of night?” pleaded Helene, as he started toward the door of the mansion.

“It would be awful at that,” and Shirley paused at the beseeching tone of the girl. “I want you to meet Mrs. Jim as well as Jim. I am afraid they would think this was the echo of an old college escapade, and misjudge you. Let me think—”

He led her to a little summer-house close by, and tucked the big coat about her as he added: “It's dark here—the wind doesn't reach you, and I'll take you back to town in five minutes. Will that do?”

As she nodded, he hurried to the door where he yanked vigorously at the bell. An angry head protruded from an upper story, after many encores of the peals.

“Aw, what the dickens? Go some place else and find out!”

“Jim, Jim. It's Monty! Come down and let me in quick.”

The window closed with a bang as the head was withdrawn, while a light soon appeared in the beveled panes of the big front door.

“You poor boob,” was the cheerful greeting as it swung wide, “What brings you out here? I thought it was the usual joy party which had lost its way. They always pick me out for an information bureau. Come on in!”

Shirley spoke rapidly, in a low tone. The girl in the dark summer-house marveled at the rapid change of mien, as Jim suddenly ran down the steps to gaze into the taxicab, then nodding to Shirley. The house-holder as promptly returned through his front door, while Shirley swiftly unmanacled the prisoner enough to let him walk, stiff and awkward from the long ordeal in the car. The stern grip, of his captor prompted obedience.

Friend Jim had appeared with warmer garments, carrying a lantern. At the door of the stable Jim's stentorian yell to the groom seemed useless, but the two men entered. Helene felt miserably weak and deserted, in the chill night, but she was cheered by seeing the energetic Shirley reappear, pushing open the doors of the garage, which was connected with the stable. He hurried to the deserted taxicab, where he seemed busied for several minutes, the glow of his pocket lamp shooting out now and then. Through the door of the garage a long, rakish-looking racing car was being pushed out by Jim and his sleepy groom. There was a cheery shout from the taxi, and Helene heard a ripping sound. Shirley reappeared, carrying an oblong box.

“I have the gas generator:—it was built in, under the seat, and controlled by a battery wire from the front lamp, Jim. A nice little mechanism. Well, old pal, please apologize to Mrs. Merrivale for my rude interruption of her beauty sleep. Keep a fatherly eye on Gentleman Mike, and the taxicab under cover. I'll communicate with you very soon. So long.”

To Helene's amazement, Shirley cranked the racer, jumped in and seemed to be starting away without her, down the sweep of the driveway. Could he have forgotten her? The man must indeed be mad, as some of his actions indicated! But her aroused indignation was turned to admiration of his finesse, for suddenly he veered the lights of the car toward the garage door, throwing them in the faces of Jim and his servant. He leaped out again, walking past the place of concealment.

“Slip into the car, while I go inside with them. I'll come out on the run, and no one will be the wiser.”

With this passing stage direction he rushed toward his accomodating friend, with some final directions. They were apparently humorous in content, for both the other men roared with mirth, as he walked inside the building, with them, an arm around the shoulder of each. Helene obeyed him, hiding as best she could in the low seat of the throbbing machine. As Shirley returned, Jim Merrivale was still laughing blithely.

“Good-bye, you old maniac: you'll be the death of me. I'll take care of the star boarder, however, and feed him champagne and mushrooms.”

With a roar, Shirley started the engines, as he bounced into the seat, and they sped down the curving driveway, with Helene leaning forward, unobserved.

“There, we've had a little by-play that friend Jim didn't guess. I always enjoy a little intrigue,” he laughed, as they whizzed along toward distant New York. “But, I had to lie, and lie, and lie—like the light that lies in women's eyes. What a jolly game!”

He was a big boy, happy in the excitement, and bubbling with his superabundance of vitality. Helene felt curiously drawn toward him, in this mood: she remembered a little paragraph she had read in a book that day:

“A woman loves a man for the boy spirit that she discovers in him: she loves him out of pity when it dies!” Then she fearsomely changed the current of her thoughts, to complain pathetically of the cold wind!

“There, now, I am so thoughtless,” was his apology, as he stopped the car, to wrap the overcoat more closely about her, and tuck her comfortably in a big fur. Through the darkened streets of the suburb they raced, entering the silent factory districts, which presaged the nearness of the river. It was well on toward daybreak before they rolled over the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan. It was his second day without sleep, but Shirley was sustained by the bizarre nature of the exploit: he could have kept at the steering wheel for an eternity.

“Are you glad we're getting back?” he asked. Helene shook her head, then she answered dreamily.

“Do you remember something from one of Browning's poems, that I do? It's just silly for us, but I understand it better now.”

Shirley surprised her by quoting it, as he looked ahead into the dark street through which they swung, his unswerving hand steady on the wheel:

A quick flush, not caused by the biting wind, suffused her cheek beneath the remnants of the rouge. Then she laughed up at him appreciatively.

“Curious how our minds ran that way, and hit the very same poem, wasn't it?”

Shirley smiled back, as he swung down Fifth Avenue.

“Not so curious after all!”

Soon they drew up before the ornate portal of the California Hotel, where late arrivals were so customary as to cause no comment. He bade her good-night, words seeming futile after their long hours together. The drive in the car to the club was short. Paddy the door man was instructed to send down to Shirley's own garage for a mechanic to store the car until further orders. The criminologist had ere this rubbed off his grease paint, so that his appearance was not unusual. Once in his rooms he treated himself to a piping hot shower, cleaned off the powder from his dark locks, and as he smoked a soothing cigarette, in his bathrobe, studied the mechanism of the gas generator for a few moments.

“That was made by an expert who understands infernal machines with a malevolent genius. I must look out for him,” he mused. “Well, I promised Professor MacDonald that I would not sleep until I had come face to face with the voice. I have fulfilled the vow: now for forgetfulness.”

He tumbled into bed, but not to oblivion. For his dreams were disturbed by tantalizing visions of certain sun-gold locks and blue eyes not at all in their simple connection with the business end of the Van Cleft mystery.