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Updated: June 15, 2025
"Old Grimsby's picked a live one, this time!" "What show is she with?" "Won't Pinkie be sore?" The criminologist was not left to wonder as to the identity of "Pinkie," for an older man, walking behind a red-headed girl in a luridly modern gown, approached the table with the absent guest. The men were talking earnestly, the girl staring angrily at Shirley's, beautiful companion.
"Open the window!" he murmured, and his confederate rushed to the very portal through which the criminologist was watching this unusual scene, with bated breath. His heart sank, as he lowered himself with a suddenness which vibrated the loosely-attached scaler. For the first time his eyes turned toward the terrifying distance from which he had ascended.
Shirley answered, to be greeted by a pleasant feminine voice. "Is this Captain Cronin?" Instantly the criminologist replied affirmatively, suiting his tones as best he could to the gruff voice of the detective chief, with a wink at that worthy. "I just called up, Captain, to ask about you Oh, you don't recognize my voice. I'm Miss Wilberforce, private secretary to Mr. Van Cleft.
Then he addressed the surprised Captain Cronin. "Here is our little telephone expert who arranged the wires for Warren and his gang, Captain. You are welcome to add him to your growing collection of prisoners." For answer the young man whipped out a revolver and fired point-blank at the criminologist. His was a ready trigger finger.
Chen still breathed hard and his almond eyes rolled nervously. At last he was quiet again, although the slender fingers twitched hungrily for a clawing of that dirty neck. Shirley patted him on the back. Judgment had come to another of the gangsters, and the criminologist was pleased at the diminution in the ranks of his opponent.
Cuthbert Grayne was perhaps more of a criminologist than either a lawyer or a policeman, but in his more barbarous surroundings he had proved successful in turning himself into a practical combination of all three. The discovery of a whole series of strange Oriental crimes stood to his credit.
According to the rules of the taxi stands he was next in order. But, as is frequently the custom in the hotly contested district of "good fares" another car "cut in" from across the street. This taxi swung quickly around and drew up before the waiting criminologist.
"Just because it's a fad of his! Speaking of this acquaintance or friend of yours, Mr. Steele, you are something of a criminologist, too, are you not, Captain Forsythe?" "Well, every man should have a hobby," returned that individual, "and, although I don't aspire to the long name you call me, I confess to a slight amateur interest."
And furthermore it had interfered with a little scheme of the criminologist by which he had expected to craftily imprison his guest for the remainder of the night. The room was put in order not much was there to rearrange, for the tussle had come so promptly. With a final look at his belongings, Shirley left Chen in charge, not forgetting to slip to him another reward for his courage.
The criminologist was no less in the dark. Warren, with a scant apology, tore open the missive. It was typewritten! He read it, and his brows came together with an angry scowl. He arose from his seat swiftly, turning toward Shirley with a nervous twitching of the erstwhile firm lips. "Would you pardon me if I ran? A Wall Street client of mine has suddenly been stricken with apoplexy.
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