door in his face.

"I'll get Chuck to watch de udder joint," muttered the man, in a tone
audible to Shirley. "Den I'll go back and git orders from Phil."

This habit of thinking aloud was expensive. Shirley stiffly but
noiselessly slid down the steps, as he disappeared in the thickening
snowfall. The criminologist slowly crossed the street, and sheltered
himself in a basement entrance, from which he reversed the shadowing
process. The twain hesitated before the first house, then one came up
the sidewalk, as the other stood his ground. This man passed within a
few feet of Shirley, who followed him over to Madison Avenue, then north
to Fifty-fifth Street. Here he turned west, and turned into one of the
old stables, formerly used by the gentry of the exclusive section for
their blooded steeds. Into one building, which announced its identity as
"Garage" with its glittering electric sign, the man disappeared.

Shirley paused, looked about him, and chuckled. For he knew that through
the block on Fifty-sixth Street was the tall apartment building, known
as the Somerset--the address given him by Reginald Warren.

"If I only had some word from Helene Marigold I could go ahead before
they realized my knowledge."

Even as this thought crossed his mind, he turned back into Sixth Avenue.
A hatless, breathless young person, running down the snowy street
collided with him. As he began to apologize, he awoke to the startling
fact that it was his assistant.

"Great Scott! What are you doing here? Where have you been all this
time?"

The girl caught his arm unsteadily, but there was a triumph in her
voice, as she cried: "Oh, this wonderful chance meeting. I was running
down to my hotel but you have saved the day. I will tell you later.
Quick, take this book."

She drew forth a volume, flexibly bound, like a small loose-leaf ledger.
Shirley stuck it into his overcoat pocket, which he was already slipping
about the girl's shivering shoulders.

"Take me back at once, for there is more for me to do."

"Where, my dear girl? You are indeed the lady of mysteries."

"To the basement of Warren's apartment house. I came down the
dumb-waiter, when they left me. I left the little door ajar--Can you
pull me up again? He is on the eighth floor. It is a long pull--Oh, if
we can only make it before they return."

Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the mad game, as she ran once more,
Shirley keeping pace with her. The flurries of the snow