Rather early, again, for the usual throng, they were able to choose their position to their liking: to-day, it was in the center of the big room, close by the space cleared for the dancing. Gradually the tables were occupied, apparently by the identical people of the afternoon before, so marked is the peculiar character of the dance-mad individuality. To-day he varied his menu with a mild order of cocktails—for now he was not emulating the Epicurean record of the bibulous Grimsby. They observed with amusement the weird contortions, seldom graced by a vestige of rhythm or beauty, with which the intent dancers spun and zigzagged.

“Considering how much money they pay to learn these steps from dancing-masters, there is unusually small value in the market, Miss Marigold. I resigned myself to the approach of the sunset years, and became a voluntary exile in the garden of the wallflowers, when society dancing became mathematical.”

“I don't understand?”

“Once it was possible to chat, to smile, to woo or to silently enjoy the music and the measures of the dance in company with a sympathetic partner. Now, however, since the triumph of the 'New Mode,' one must count 'one-two-three,' and one's partner is more captious than a schoolmarm! What puzzles me is the need for new steps, to be learned from expensive teachers, when it's so easy to slide down hill in this part of New York. But here endeth the sermon, for I recognize the amiable Pinkie at that other table, where she is studying your face with the malevolence of a cobra.”

Helene slowly turned her eyes toward the other girl, who now advanced with forced effusiveness.

“Oh, my dear, and you're back again today. But where is dear old Grimmie; he is a nice old soul, though a trifle near-sighted. He wasn't half seas over last night—he was a war-zone submarine, out for a long-distance record!”

She impudently seated herself at the table with them, sending a questioning glance at the handsome companion of her quondam rival. Helene instinctively drew back, but a warning glance from Shirley plunged her into her assumed character, and she greeted the other girl with the quasi-comradeship of their class.

“Oh, yes, dear. Grimsby was a little poisoned by the salad or something like that: he was actually disagreeable with me, of all people in the world. But, I have so many friends that Grimsby does not give me any worry. He means nothing in my life. You seemed quite worried over him, though—”

“Yes, girlie,” was Pinkie's effort to parry. “I was upset—not because he was with you, but to see the old chap showing his age. His taste has deteriorated so much since he started wearing glasses. But why don't you introduce me to your gentleman friend?”

Helene's faint smile expressed volumes, as she turned toward the modest Shirley with a bow of condescension. “This is Pinkie, one of old Grimsby's sweethearts, Mr. Shirley. I'm sure you'll like her.”

“Are you Montague Shirley?” demanded the auburn-haired coquette with sudden interest. As Shirley nodded, she caught his hand with an ardent glance, ogling him impressively, as she continued: “I've heard a lot of you. I'm just that pleased to meet you!”

An indefinable resentment crept over Helene. How could this creature of the demi-monde have even distant acquaintance of such a wholesome, superior man as her escort? The effusiveness was irritating, and the overacted kittenishness of the girl made her sick at heart, although she betrayed no sign of her feeling. Helene could not understand that despite its mammoth size, New York is relatively provincial in the club and theatrical community, his acquaintanceship numbering into the thousands. Town Topics, the social gossipers of the newspapers and talkative club men bandied names about in such wise that it was easy for members of Pinkie's profession to satisfy their hopeful curiosity—prompted by visions of eventual social conquest on the one hand and a professional desire to memorize street numbers on the Wealth Highway for ultimate financial manipulations. As one of the richest members of the exclusive bachelor set, Montague Shirley, even unknown to himself, occupied reserved niches in the ambitions of a hundred and one fair plotters!

“You will honor us by taking a drink, Miss Pinkie?” was the criminologist's courteous overture.

“Pinkie Marlowe, if you want to know the rest of my name. Yes, I need a little absinthe to wake me up, for I just finished breakfast. We had a large party last night at Reg Warren's. Why don't you dance with me?”

“The old adage about fat men never being loved applies especially to those who brave the terrors of the fox-trot. I weigh two hundred, so I wisely sit under the trees and laugh at the others.”

“You two hundred?” and admiration flashed from Pinkie's emotional eyes, “I don't believe it. Why, you're just right! I could dance with a man like you all night!”

Helene's helplessness only fanned the flames of her inward fury at the brazen intent of the girl. She forgot about Jack and even her plans about Reginald Warren. But Shirley's purpose was now rewarded, for Pinkie acted as the magnet to draw over several of the gilded youths whom they had met the day before. More introductions followed, and additional refreshments were soon gracing the table. Shine Taylor was the next to join the party, and erelong the waited-for visitor was approaching them. His eyes were upon Shirley from the instant that he entered the room: he advanced directly toward their table with a certainty which proved to Monty that method was in every move.

“What a pleasant surprise, little Bonbon!” exclaimed this gentleman as he drew up to their table. “I'm so glad. I was afraid you wouldn't get home safely with Grimsby; he was so absolutely overcome last night. He promised to bring you to my little entertainment but didn't show up. What became of him?”

“Join us in a drink and forget him,” suggested Helene, as she took his hand with an innocently stupid smile. “This is Mr. Shirley, Mr.—Mr.—I had so much champagne last night I forgot your name.”

“Warren, that's simple enough. Glad to see you, Mr. Sherwood, oh, Shirley! It seems as though I had heard your name—aren't you an actor, or an artist? A musician, or something like that? My memory is so miserable.”

“I'm just a 'something like that,' not even an actor,” was the answer, as the tiniest of nudges registered Helene's appreciation. “What is your favorite poison?”

Warren gave him a startled look, and then laughed: “Oh, you mean to drink? Now you must join me for I am the intruder.” He drew out a roll of money; more nice, new hundred dollar bills. Shirley remembered that old Van Cleft had drawn several thousand dollars from his office the night of the murder. Even his trained stoicism rebelled at thought of drinking a cocktail bought with this bloody currency!

“You didn't tell me about Grimsby?” persisted Warren, turning to Helene, with an admiring scrutiny of the girl's charms. “I'm rather interested.”

“You'll have to ask him, not me. After we took a taxi from the Winter-Garden we had a ride in the Park. So stupid, I thought, at this time of the year. When I woke up, Grimmie was helping me into the entrance of the hotel. He was very cross with the chauffeur and with me, too. Then he took the taxi and went home, still angry.”

“So!” after a moment's silence, Warren continued, a puzzled look on his face. “What was the trouble? I don't see how any one could be cross with a nice little girl like you. But to-night, I'm to have another little party up at my house. Bring some one up, who won't be cross. You come, Mr. Shirley?”

Helene hesitated, but Monty acquiesced.

“That would be splendid. What time?”

“About eleven. I'll expect you—I must run along now, as I'm ordering some fancy dishes.”

Shirley had paid his waiter, and he rose with Helene.

“We must be leaving, too. I'll accept your invitation.”

“And I'll be there, too, Mr. Shirley,” put in Pinkie Marlowe. “I'll teach you some new steps. Reggie has a wonderful phonograph for dancing, with all the new tunes. See you later, girlie.”

They were accompanied to the door by Shine and Warren. At the check-room, Shirley was interested to note that Shine Taylor took out his green velour hat. His feet were adorned with white spats. After the door of their taxi had slammed he confided to Helene that he had located the gentleman who had caused his wreck that morning. Still, however, the clues were too weak for action. The car went first to the club, where Shirley sent in for any possible letters or messages. The servant brought out a note. It was another surprise. He gave an address to the driver and as the car turned up Fifth Avenue, he studied this missive with knit brows.

“A new worry?” asked Helene. “May I help you?”

He handed her the letter, and she noticed the nervous handwriting. It was short.

“Dear Mr. Shirley: Just received a threatening note demanding money. Can you come up at once? Howard V. C.”

Shirley answered the question in the blue eyes, as she finished.

“As I thought it would turn out. Baffled in their game of robbing old men who have all left the city, they have begun to work the chance for blackmail. I will advise Van Cleft to pay them, and then we will follow the money. Here is the mansion and I will be out in five minutes.”

He soon disappeared behind the bronze door. True to his promise, in five minutes he had returned. He looked up and down the Avenue amazed. Not a trace of the taxicab, nor of Helene Marigold could be seen!

Shirley's impulse was to pinch himself to awaken from the chimera. He knew she was armed, and would use the weapon if only to call for help. For the first time in his career the chill of terror crept into his heart—not for himself, but an irresistible dread of some impending danger for this unfathomable woman who had shared his dangers so uncomplainingly during this last wonderful day. He racked his mind vainly for some plausible reason. “She knows I need her. Yet at the supreme moment of the game she disappears. Can she be like other women, when she is most necessary?”

And he walked slowly down the Avenue, disconcerted, endeavoring to solve this sudden abortion of his best laid plans.