"After finding you so accidentally and returning with your aid,
on the little elevator, I threw myself back into the original
pose on the big couch. It was just in time, for Warren returned.
His cook came in shortly afterward. I imagine that he allows no
one in that apartment, ordinarily, when he is not there himself.
But what, sir, do you think I discovered upon the shoulder of his
coat?"
Shirley shook his head. "A beautiful crimson hair," he asked
gravely, "from the sun-kissed forehead of the delectable Pinkie? Or
was it white, from the tail of the snowy charger which tradition
informs us always lurks in the vicinity of auburn-haired
enchantresses?"
"Nothing so romantic. Just cobwebs! He saw me looking at them,
and brushed them off very quickly."
"The man thinks he is a wine bottle of rare vintage!" observed
Shirley. But the jest was only in his words. He looked at her
seriously and then rapt in thought, closed his eyes the better to
aid his mental calculation. "He got off at the second floor--He
wore no overcoat--A black silk handkerchief--cobwebs--and that
garage on the other street, through the block! Miss Helene, you
are a splendid ally!"
"Won't you tell me what you mean about the garage? Who were
those men who attacked you? What happened since I deserted you?"
But Shirley provokingly shook his head, as he drew out his watch.
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