This, he observed severely to himself as he lanced his way with the ferrule of his stick through a brigade of yelling students, was higher education in New York! He sighed, his silver eyes tender behind the lenses of his pince-nez; for, possessing that acute faculty of observation so essential to his business of studying criminal phenomena, he could not help but note the tea-rose complexions, the saucy eyes, and the osier figures of various female students in his path. His own Alma Mater, he reflected gloomily, paragon of the educational virtues that it was, might have been far better off had it besprinkled its muscular classes with nice-smelling co-eds like these—yes, indeed!

Shaking off these unprofessorial thoughts, Mr. Ellery Queen edged gingerly through a battalion of giggling girls and approached Room 824, his destination, with dignity.

He halted. A tall and handsome and fawn-eyed young woman was leaning against the closed door, so obviously lying in wait for him that he began, under the buckling tweeds, to experience a—good lord!—a trepidation. Leaning, in fact, on the little placard which read:

CRIMINOLOGY, APPLIED

MR. QUEEN

This was, of course, sacrilege. . . . The fawn-eyes looked up at him soulfully, with admiration, almost with reverence. What did a member of the faculty do in such a predicament? Ellery wondered with a muted groan. Ignore the female person, speak to her firmly—?

The decision was wrested from his hands and, so to speak, placed on his arm. The brigand grasped his left biceps with devotional vigor and said in fluty tones: “You’re Mr. Ellery Queen, himself, aren’t you?

“I knew you were. You’ve the nicest eyes. Such a queer color. Oh, it’s going to be thrilling, Mr. Queen!”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, I didn’t say, did I?” The hand, which he observed with some astonishment was preposterously small, released his tingling biceps. She said sternly, as if in some way he had fallen in her estimation: “And you’re the famous detective. Hmm. Another illusion blasted. . . . Old Icky sent me, of course.”

“Old Icky?”

“You don’t know even that. Heavens! Old Icky is Professor Ickthorpe, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., and goodness knows what else.”

“Ah!” said Ellery. “I begin to understand.”

“And high time, too,” said the young woman severely. “Furthermore, Old Icky is my father, do you see. . . .” She became all at once very shy, or so Ellery reasoned, for the black lashes with their impossible sweep dropped suddenly to veil eyes of the ultimate brownness.

“I do see, Miss Ickthorpe.” Ickthorpe! “I see all too clearly. Because Professor Ickthorpe—ah—inveigled me into giving this fantastic course, because you are Professor Ickthorpe’s daughter, you think you may wheedle your way into my group. Fallacious reasoning,” said Ellery, and planted his stick like a standard on the floor. “I think not. No.”