feature story published a month before in a semi-theatrical paper.
It described with rollicking sarcasm, a gay "millionaire" party
which had been given in Rector's private dining rooms. Among the
ridiculed hosts were Van Cleft, Wellington Serral and Herbert De
Cleyster! Here, in some elusive manner, ran the skein of truth which
if followed would lead to the solution of mystery. He must carve out
of this mass of pregnant clues the essentials upon which to act, as
the sculptor chisels the marble of a huge block to expose the figure
of his inspiration, encased there all the time!

"To find out the source of their golden-haired nymphs for this
merry-merry, that is the question! Some stage doorkeeper might
be persuaded to unburden what soul he has left!"

He jotted in his memorandum book the names of the other eight
wealthy men who were pilloried by the journalist. The younger
men, Shirley felt sure, were of that peculiarly Manhattanse type
of hanger-on--well-groomed, happy-go-hellward youths who danced,
laughed and drank well,--so essential to the philanderings of
these rich old Harlequins and their gilded Columbines. As he
scribbled, the telephone of the room tinkled its summons.

He started toward it: then his invaluable intuition prompted him
to walk into the adjoining room, where another instrument stood
on a small table, handy to the bed. Only two people could
possibly know he was there. Van Cleft could not have arrived, as
yet. The other bell jingled impatiently, but Shirley finally
heard the voice of the switch-board girl.

"I'm trying to get you on the other wire, sir. There's a call."