It took stoicism to the Nth degree for Shirley to respond to the early telephone call next morning, from the clerk of the club. A few minutes of violent exercise, in the hand ball court, the plunge, a short swim in the natatorium and a rub down from the Swedish masseur, however, brought him around to the mood for another adventure. Sending for the racing car he began the round-up of details. There was, first of all, Captain Cronin to be visited in Bellevue. Here he was agreeably surprised to find the detective chief recuperating with the abettance of his rugged Celtic physique. The nurse told Shirley that another day's treatment would allow the Captain to return to his own home: Shirley knew this meant the executive office of the Holland Detective Agency.

“And sure, Monty, when I have a free foot once again, I'm going to apply it to them gangsters who put me to sleep.”

“Just what I want you to do, Captain! I 'phoned to your men this morning while I had breakfast at the club: they have that taxicab which was left near Van Cleft's house. It's put away safely, Cleary said. There are two gangsters where the dogs won't bite them; today they are sending out to Jim Merrivale's house to get the third and he'll be busy with a little private third degree. I have no evidence which would connect the man who tried to kill me last night with the other murders, except in a circumstantial way. What I must do is to follow up the trail, and get the gentleman carrying out the bales, in other words, with the goods on him.”

“You'll get him, Monty, if I know you. The fellow hasn't called up at all on the telephone to-day. I think he's afraid of you.”

“No, Captain Cronin, not that! He's up to some new game. Well, I'm off—take care of yourself and don't eat anything the nurse doesn't bring you with her own hands. I wouldn't put anything past this gang.”

He shook hands and hurried out of the hospital, with several more errands to complete. He looked vainly about him for the gray racing-car. It was gone! Here was another unexpected interference with his work, and Shirley, sotto voce, expressed himself more practically than politely. He hurried to an ambulance driver who stood in a doorway, solacing his jangled nerves with a corn-cob smoke.

“Neighbor, did you see any one take the gray car standing here a few minutes ago?”

“Yep, a feller just came out of the hospital entry, cranked her and jumped in.”

“How long ago?”

“Well, I just returned with a suicide actor case five minutes ago.”

“Then you might have seen him enter first?”

“Nope. Not a sign. All I seen was the way he cranked the machine, and he didn't waste any elbow grease doin' it, either. He knew the trick. That's what I thought when I seen him, even if he did look like a dude.”

Shirley hurried to the entry once more. This was the only portal through which visitors were admitted to the hospital for the purpose of calling on patients. He hastened to the uniformed attendant who took down the names of all applicants. This man, upon inquiry, was a trifle dubious. True, there had been two Italian women and before them—yes, there had been a young chap with a green velour hat, and white spats. He had asked about a Captain Cronin, and when told that a visitor was already seeing the patient, agreed to wait outside. It had been about five minutes before. The man was indefinite about more details. Shirley hurried to the telephone booth in the corridor. To Headquarters he reported the theft of car “99835 N.Y.,” giving a description of its special features and its make. This warning he knew would be telephoned to all stations within five minutes, so that every policeman in New York would be on the lookout for the missing machine. Satisfied, he left the hospital, to walk across the long block to the nearest north and south avenue, where he might catch a surface car.

Suddenly he halted, to mutter in astonishment at a sight which was the surprise of the morning: it was the missing car standing peacefully on the next corner.

“I wonder what that means?” he murmured, as he stopped to study with great interest the window of an Italian green grocer. A sidelong glance at the car and its surroundings revealed nothing out of the way. He retraced his steps to the hospital, wasted ten minutes with a cigarette or two, and still no one seemed to take an interest in the automobile. Finally he walked up to the car, trying the lock of which he had the only key. Apparently it had been untampered with, for the key worked perfectly. Here was Jim Merrivale's car, a good three hundred yards away from the place where he had locked it to prevent any moving. He felt certain that keen eyes had him under surveillance, yet he could not observe any observers within the range of his own vision. It was simply a stupid, quiet slum neighborhood and at the time, unusually deserted by the customary hordes of children and dogs!

What had been the purpose in moving it such a short distance?

Where had it been in the twenty-five minutes since he had left it at the entrance to the hospital?

Why had it been left here, of all places, where he would naturally walk if desirous of taking a street-car?

There seemed no immediate answer to the conundrums. So, he nonchalantly clambered into the car, after cranking it. The mechanism seemed in perfect order. Puzzled, he started to speed up the street, when he observed a white envelope close by his foot, on the floor of the car.

He picked it up, and tearing it open quickly read this simple message.

“To whom it may concern: It is frequently advisable to mind your own business—is it not? Answer: Yes!”

“Huh,” grunted Shirley. “While not thrilling in originality, it is a lasting truth which nobody can deny. I'll save this and frame it on the walls of my rooms.”

As he drove around the corner and up the Avenue, there was suddenly a terrific explosion, which threw him completely out of the machine! The car, without a driver, its engines whirring madly, dashed into a helpless corner fruit stand, scattering oranges, bananas, apples and desolation in its wake, as it vainly endeavored to climb to the second story with super-mechanical intelligence! Shirley, stunned and bruised, fell to the pavement where he lay until an excited patrolman rushed to his rescue.

A little “first aid” work brought Shirley back to consciousness, and he stiffly rose to his feet, with a head throbbing too much for any real thinking.

“What's the matter with your auto?” cried the policeman. “Can't you run it? Let's see the number.” The officer took out his notebook, to jot down the details according to police rules. Then he turned on Shirley in amazement. “Be gorry, it's car 99835 N.Y. I just wrote the number down when I came on post with my squad! This car is stolen. You come with me!”

Shirley had been adjusting the mechanism, and the wheels had ceased their whirring. He tried to expostulate in a dazed way, realizing that for once the department was working with a vengeful promptness. He was hoist by his own petard!

“I'm the owner of the car,” he began, rubbing his aching forehead.

“What's yer name?”

“Montague Shirley!” The policeman laughed, as he caught the criminologist by the shoulder, and blew his whistle for another man from post duty.

“You lie. This car is owned by James Merrivale. You can't put over raw stuff like that on me. I'm no rookie—Here, Joe,” (as the other policeman ran up through the growing, jeering crowd,) “watch this machine. This guy's one of them auto Raffles, and I done a good job when I lands him. I'm going to the station-house now.”

The other policeman was examining the car, when he called to his fellow officer: “Here, Sim, did you see this car was blown up inside the seat?”

Shirley, his acuteness returned by this time, ran to the car eluding his captor's hold. He had not observed before the jagged shattered hole torn in the side of the leather side. It had all happened so swiftly, that his professional instincts were slow in reasserting themselves after the “buck” of the car.

“You're right,” he exclaimed. “There's an alarm clock and a dry battery—the same man made this who built the gas-generator—”

“Whadd'ye mean—ain't you the feller after all?” asked the first patrolman, beginning to get dubious about his arrest.

“No, I am no thief. But just take me to the station-house quick, and turn in your report. Let this other man guard that car. Hurry up!”

“Say, feller, who do you think is making this arrest? You'll go to the station-house when I get ready.”

“Then you're ready now,” snapped the criminologist. “You'll see me discharged very promptly, when I speak to the Commissioner over the wire.”

The officer was supercilious until the station-house was reached. He had heard this blatant talk before. What was his surprise when Shirley telephoned to the head of the Department and then called the Captain to the instrument.

“Release Mr. Shirley at once,” was the crisp order. “Give him any men or assistance he needs.”

“Well, whadd'ye know about that? Not even entered on the blotter to credit me with a good arrest!” The patrolman turned away in disgust.

“Do you want any of the reserves, sir?” The Captain was scrupulously polite.

“Not one. I'm going to study that machine again. You might detail a plain clothes man to walk along the other side of the street for luck. Good-day.”

The automobile to which he returned was still the object of community interest. Shirley took the remains of the bomb which had caused his sudden elevation. The policeman approached him from the fruit store.

“The man wants damages for the stock you destroyed, mister. I'll fix it up with him if you want—about twenty-five dollars will do.”

“Well, hand him this five-dollar bill and see if that won't dry some of the imported tears,” retorted Shirley with a laugh. In a few minutes he was bowling along on a surface car, to the club. There was no longer any use in trying to hide his identity or address, for the conspirators knew at least of his interest and assistance in the case: although in this as all others he was not known to be a professional sleuth.

In the quiet of his room he drew out magnifying glasses and other instruments for a thorough analysis of the remains of the infernal machine. He compared this with the mechanism of the gas-generator which had been placed in the seat of the Death taxi. There was evidence that it had come from the same source. Shirley sniffed at the generator and the peculiar odor still clinging to it was familiar.

“Well, I think I will have a little surprise for Mr. Voice, the next time we grapple, which will be an encore of his own tune, with a new verse!”

He went to a cabinet, took out a small glass vial, filled with a limpid liquid and placed it within his own pocket. Then he prepared for a new line of activities for the day. His first duty was a call on Pat Cleary, superintendent of the Holland Agency.

“The Captain is progressing splendidly,” was his answer to the anxious query. “He will be back in the harness again to-morrow. How are the prisoners?”

“They have tried to break out twice and gave my doorman a black eye. But they got four in return: Nick is no mollycoddle, you know. I can't quite get the number of these fellows, for they are not registered down at Headquarters, in the Rogue's Gallery. Their finger-prints are new ones in this district, too. They look like imported birds, Mr. Shirley. What do you think?”

Cleary's opinion of the club man had been gaining in ascendency.

“They may be visitors from another city, but I think the state will keep them here as guests for a nice long time, Cleary. They say New York is inhospitable to strangers, but we occasionally pay for board and room from the funds of the taxpayers without a kick. We saved the day for the Van Clefts, all right. The paper told of a beautiful but quiet funeral ceremony, while the daughter has postponed her marriage for six months.”

Then he recounted the adventure of the exploding car. Cleary lit his malodorous pipe, and shook his head thoughtfully.

“Young man, you know your own affairs best. But with all your money, you'd better take to the tall pines yourself, like these old guys in the 'Lobster Club.' That's the advice of a man who's in the business for money not glory. This is a bum game. They'll get me some day, some of these yeggs or bunk artists that I've sent away for recuperation, as the doctors call it. But I'm doing it for bread and beefsteak, while it lasts. You run along and play—a good way from the fire, or you'll get more than your fingers burnt. Take their hint and beat it while the beating's good.”

A glint of steel shone from the eyes of the criminologist as he lit another cigarette and took up his walking-stick.

“Why, Cleary, this is what I call real sport. Why go hunting polar bears and tigers when we've got all this human game around the Gold Coast of Manhattan? I'm tired of furs: I want a few scalps. Good-morning.”

As Cleary went up the stairway to renew the ginger of the Third Degree for the two prisoners, he smiled to himself, and muttered:

“The guy ain't such a boob as he looks: he's just a high-class nut. I'd enjoy it myself if it wasn't my regular work.”

At Dick Holloway's office Shirley was greeted with an eager demand for his report of the former evening's activities. An envious look was on the face of the theatrical manager.

“Shucks, Monty! It's a shame that all this sport is private stock, and can't be bottled up and peddled to the public, for they're just crazy about gangster melodrama. They're paying opera prices for the old time ten-twent-and-thirt-melodrama, right on Broadway. Hurry up and get the man and I'll have him dramatized while the craze is rampant.”

“Not while I own the copyright,” retorted Shirley, “this is one of the chapters of my life that isn't going to be typewritten, much less the subject of gate-receipts.”

“I'm not so certain of that,” and Holloway's smile was quizzical.

“What do you mean? Who is this Helene Marigold? I have a right to know in a case like this.”

“Good intuition, as far as you go. But you're guessing wrong, for she has nothing to do with my little joke. But why worry about her?” laughed Holloway. His friend had leaned forward, intensely, clutching his cane, with an unusually serious look on his face. Holloway had never seen Shirley take such an interest in any woman before. He arose from his desk-chair and walked to the broad window, which overlooked the thronging sidewalks of Broadway.

“Down there is the biggest, busiest street in the world filled with women of all hues and shades. This is the first time you ever looked so anxious about any combination of lace, curls, silks and gew-gaws before. You have been the bright and shining example of indifferent bachelor freedom which has made me—thrice divorced—so envious of your unalloyed, unalimonied joy. Don't betray the feet of clay which have supported my idol!”

The baffling smile of the debonair club man returned to Shirley's face, as he twitted back: “Purely an altruistic inquiry, Dick. I feared that you might be risking your own heart and the modicum of freedom which you still possess. But I'll wager a supper-party for four that I'll find out who she is, without either you or she telling me.”

“Taken. At last I'm to have a free banquet, after years of business entertaining. You have met a girl who will match your wits—I expect the sparks to fly. Well, she's worth while—I might do worse—but in perfect fairness she ought to do better. How about it?”

“Yes, with Jack,” and Shirley tapped the walking stick on the floor with an emphatic thump, while Holloway regarded him in startled surprise.

“Who is Jack?”

“You see—I am learning already. But, you and I are drifting from my task. I wish that you would take me to call on Miss Marigold, in my present lack of disguise. I do not care for that ancient garb any longer. It was stretching the chances rather far, but thanks to the darkness, the champagne, and good fortune, I succeeded in impersonating our aged friend without detection. I will not return to Grimsby's house, but propose now to get down to brass tacks with Mr. Voice, even though the tacks be hard to sit upon. I wish to use her as a bait, by taking her out to tea and getting a first-hand speaking acquaintance with these convivial assassins.”

“Monty, you are wasting your talents outside the pages of a play manuscript, but we will make that call instanter.”

In leisure, they promenaded up the crowded Gay Wide Way, through the noontime crowd of theatrical folk who dot the thoroughfare in this part of the city. His adversaries were to have every opportunity to observe his movements and draw their own conclusions. At the Hotel California new comment buzzed between the garrulous clerk and the switchboard person, at sight of the well-known manager and his prosperous-looking companion.

“Who is that come on?” asked the clerk of the bellboy.

“Sure, dat's Montague Shirley, one of dem rich ginks from de College Club on Forty-fourth Street, where I used to woik in de check room. If I had dat guy's money I'd buy a hotel like dis.”

“Then I see where Holloway, with that blonde dame upstairs, will be putting on a new musical show, with a new angel. It's a great business, Miss Gwendolyn—no wonder they call it art.” And the clerk removed a silk handkerchief from his coat cuff, to dust the register wistfully. “Why didn't I devote my talents to the drama instead of room-keys and due-bills?”

But Miss Gwendolyn was too busy talking to the Milwaukee drummer in Room 72 to formulate a logical reason. Shirley and Holloway improved the time by taking the elevator to the top floor where Helene greeted them at the door of her pretty apartment. She welcomed them happily, declaring it had been a lonesome morning.

“Weren't you resting from that long thrill of last night, in which you starred?” asked Holloway.

“It was too thrilling for me to sleep: I know I look a perfect frump, this morning. I tossed on the pillow, watching the dawn over your towering New York roofs, so nervous and almost miserable. But, with company, it's all right again.”

Holloway laughed inwardly at the warmth of the glance which she bestowed upon Shirley. From the angle of an audience, he was beginning to observe a phase of this double play of personalities which was unseen by either of the participants. Two sleepless nights, after such a first evening together, and what then? He imagined the denouement, with a growing enjoyment of his vantage-point as the game advanced.

“To-day, I am reversing the usual progress of history,” said Shirley, as he sat down in the window-seat. “From second juvenility I am returning to the first. In other words, I wish to become your adoring suitor in the role of Montague Shirley.”

“I don't understand,” and her eyes widened in wonder, not without an accompanying blush which did not escape Holloway.

“No longer a lamb in sheep's clothing, I want to entertain you, without the halo of William Grimsby's millions. I want to take tea with these gentle-voiced cut-throats, who after my warning to-day, are directing their attention to me.” He narrated the narrow escape from death in the racing-car. Helene's eyes darkened with an uncertainty which he had hardly expected. Perhaps she would refuse to carry out their compact along these dangerous lines.

“Do you feel it wise to place yourself beneath this new menace?”

“The sword of Damocles is over me now, I know. To run would be a confession of weakness and open the field for his further activities, with the rear-guard continuously exposed. There is nothing like the personal equation. I will call at five this afternoon, if you are willing, Miss Marigold?”

“I will fight it out to the end,” and she placed her warm hand firmly within his own. The two friends departed, Shirley retracing his steps to the club where many things were to be studied and planned. His system of debit and credit records of facts known and needed, was one which brought finite results. As he smoked and pondered at his ease, a tapping on the study door aroused him from his vagrant speculations. At his call, a respectful Japanese servant presented a note, just left by a messenger-boy. He tore the envelope and read it.

“Montague Shirley:—The third time is finis. As a friend you accomplished the purpose you sought. There is no grudge against you. Why seek one? It is fatal for you to remain in the city. Leave while you have time.”

That was all. The chirography was the same as that upon the note of the racing-car episode. Shirley locked up the missive in his cabinet, and smiled at the increasing tenseness of the situation.

“The writer of these two notes may have an opportunity to leave town himself before long, to rest his nerves in the quiet valley of the Hudson, at Ossining. My friend the enemy will soon be realizing a deficit in his rolling-stock and gentlemanly assistants. Two automobiles and three prisoners to date. There should be additional results before midnight. I wonder where he gardens into fruition these flowers of crime?”

And even as he pondered, a curious scene was being enacted within a dozen city blocks of the commodious club house.