MISS MARBLE’S WATERLOO!—A LOST LAMB!—HER VACANT CHAIR.—SENATOR
GARSTON’S DISCLOSURE.—SARA CONYERS’ MISSION.—MISS GARLAND’S
DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE.—A DEFIANCE TO THE DEATH.—“ROBBED!”
In the two weeks after the successful affixing of those snake-like
coils of wire which led the private messages of Mme. Elaine Willoughby
into janitor Helms’ guarded private apartment, Mr. Harold Vreeland
had effected a thorough understanding with that worthy. The trapping
devices worked to a charm. All was now ready for a final betrayal.
Secure in his autocratic rule, August Helms buried his shock head
in the beer seidl and tyrannized with a good-humored roughness over
the cringing tradesmen visiting the Circassia, and, a greedy gossip,
he made his “coign of vantage” a warm nook for letter-carrier and
policeman and the high class “upper servants” of the families who
lived above him, in a royal Americanized luxury in that great social
fortress, the Circassia. Helms was a modern tyrant.
His round, gray-blue eye twinkled as Justine Duprez would slyly slip
in and read off the printed tape of the Wheatstone instrument, a
duplicate sender and receiver of the same pattern being neatly encased
in a pretty cabinet in the pearl boudoir above. And Mrs. Willoughby
doubted, feared, suspected—nothing.
But all in vain did Helms record the telephoned messages which
were trapped on the instrument which was his especial care. There
was nothing to record of moment. A lull seemed to hover over every
speculative interest of the convalescent woman.
The stillness of death now marked Mr. Harold Vreeland’s “business
department” at the Elmleaf. The illness of Mary Kelly had cut off all
special communication with Mrs. Willoughby at the Circassia, and he
had been forced to give Miss Romaine Garland a furlough “under full
pay” until Mrs. Willoughby’s trusted operator could resume her desk.
The young girl shunned any _tête-à-tête_ labors. It was in virtue of
a warning from the acute Joanna Marble that Vreeland gravely bade his
mysterious beauty rest herself and “await further orders.”
“She is of the finer clay,” warningly remarked Miss Joanna. “One toss
of that proud head and she would be off like a startled fawn. You must
trust to a woman—only a woman—to lead a woman on. Beware of rashness.
You would lose her.”
There was an _innocuous desuetude_ now clinging to all Vreeland’s
crippled plans.
For, soberly attentive in his duty calls, he had left daily cards at
the Circassia, supplemented with flowers whose dreaming beauty might
have touched a heart less wrung than Elaine’s.
Admitted but once to her presence, he marveled at the serious change in
her appearance.
After receiving her orders, he now knew that he was free for a month to
follow on his social pleasures and to watch, down in Wall Street, the
executive matters of the firm and note the gradual liquidation, dollar
for dollar, of all proved claims against the defunct firm of Hathorn &
Wolfe.
He recognized the cool-headed sifting of Mr. James Potter’s lawyers,
under the mandates of that young Crœsus in Paris.
“A fair, square settlement, dollar for dollar,” was Potter’s openly
avowed business plan.
The last flurries of the sudden Sugar speculations had all died away,
and Vreeland at last believed Mrs. Willoughby’s description of the
market.
“There is nothing in sight. I shall let all speculation alone until
Dr. Alberg pronounces me able to stand business excitement. Your time
is your own till I call you back to your post and send Miss Kelly down
to her work again. She will act as my private secretary until I am
thoroughly well.”
And Vreeland, now fearful that he might be as suddenly dropped as
Frederick Hathorn had been, forbore to press on the confidence of the
woman whose thinned cheeks and hollow eyes told of some internal fires
eating away her vitality. He was unable to extract any information of
value from Dr. Hugo Alberg. And the thieving nurse was now safe over
the sea—the robbery of the envelope still undiscovered.
The German medical worthy was really puzzled. In the secrecy of
Vreeland’s rooms he confided that though all the depression of the
skillfully administered overdoses of chloral had worn away, his patient
was wearing herself to the verge of a collapse.
“Mental trouble! mental trouble!” he growled. “Neither Justine nor my
new nurse (whom I dare not fully trust) can gain the slightest clew
to her sorrows. The Madame has grown cat-like, too, in her secretive
ways. There is old Endicott always hovering around, and that newspaper
fellow, Hugh Conyers; and, besides, his raw-boned artist sister, Miss
Sara, is closeted with her nearly every evening. What they are all up
to is a devil’s wonder.
“Are they plucking her of her gold? There is such a thing as social
blackmail. Any lonely woman of fortune usually has a ring of hungry
sycophants around her.”
The German groaned helplessly. He wanted that same gold, and wanted it
badly.
“And you, of course, think that you should be the king-pin of the whole
machine,” sneered Vreeland. The half-angered German snorted a warning.
“Look out for yourself,” growled Alberg. “She does not let the French
maid go out of her sight now, and her new nurse has not dared to leave.
Remember, I will hold you responsible about the stolen envelope. I have
covered up my own tracks.”
And then he proudly exhibited the newspaper clipping headed, “An
Ungrateful Protégé,” which described the heartless pillaging of
Dr. Alberg’s office and rooms by “Miss Martha Wilmot,” who had
“decamped for parts unknown.” The police detective opinions and the
portentous interviews were all set out in extenso.
“When Milady finds that she was been robbed, too, then look out for
squalls,” was the parting admonition of the Doctor. It brought grave
shadows to Vreeland’s face.
Harold Vreeland was startled when his dupe left him. For it now flashed
over him that his evening _cartes de visite_ had lately only elicited
the same stereotyped answer: “Mrs. Willoughby is too unwell to see
anyone.”
He had, however, “improved the shining hours” by a flank movement to
the Hotel Savoy, where he had drifted far, very far, into the good
graces of that sparkling heiress, Miss Katharine Norreys. And his daily
welcome grew warmer with each visit. He was getting on famously.
Senator James Garston’s absence “on Washington visits,” with the usual
trips of a busy money magnate from fever center to fever center of the
golden whirlpool, had left the young man to “exploit” the many graces
of the tall, willowy blonde. He had often mused over the possibility
of an advantageous alliance. “Here is a woman, young, rich, and with
a powerful Senatorial backing. I might even be able to get inside the
ring. For now I hold the secret of a combination which no one dares
avow. It would be my ruin, however, to use it until the time comes
to rule or crush Mrs. Willoughby. She must be my ‘golden goose’—she
alone—and, I must not kill her too soon.”
A long introspection proved to him that his old “waiting game” was the
only safe plan.
“If Garston makes up to me, I can meet him half way. Perhaps he might
exchange the secret of my sly patroness’ early life for the golden
key to the Sugar situation. Together we could surely control her. And
acting alone, I might easily be crushed between this secretly warring
couple.
“But, when their dual secret is mine, then I can always act against
my weakest foe. They will never dare get rid of me then,” he craftily
premised, for he saw gold ahead—solid, easily earned gold. And the busy
devil in his cold heart laughed and made merry.
But one circumstance now disquieted him as to the resplendent Miss
Katharine VanDyke Norreys—the absence of a respectable, social womanly
background.
There was no doubt as to the tangible luxury of her daily life, and the
deep respect shown by the Hotel Savoy management spoke of that regular
payment of bills which endears “the guest” to the Boniface.
“A certain number of women friends are a _sine qua non_, however, to a
‘professed beauty,’” mused Vreeland.
“Their absence is as remarkable as a bedizened general riding out
all alone into the enemy’s land with no following. I presume that
‘prominent Westerners’ will in due time furnish her with a golden woman
bodyguard. Garston being a widower, too, is another awkward thing.”
In the whole embarrassing situation, all that Vreeland could do to move
on his plans was to make a stolen visit to the rooms of the janitor of
the Circassia.
There Justine Duprez, in a few moments of stolen time, breathlessly
told him of the nightly conferences. “I think that she is soon going
abroad. They have maps and papers out every evening. So far she has not
examined her hidden paper. When she does, there will be a wild storm.
“And then only at my room in South Fifth Avenue dare we meet. We must
be watchful. For the little green-eyed typewriter, Mary Kelly, spies on
me, and I find her blue-coated friend, too, that big policeman, Daly
the Roundsman, following me around. Look out for yourself. You and I
must stand or fall together. She may give us both the slip. If she went
over to Paris, and took me with her, you dare not follow her; but I
could write to you always, and give you a safe address to write to me.”
Vreeland was vaguely disturbed at heart.
“Can we trust to August Helms?” muttered Vreeland, with a sudden shiver
of underlying cowardice.
“Yes,” grimly said Justine, “as long as you pay him, and, besides, he
faces state’s prison in—you know—his own part of the business. We must
stand together firmly, and you lead us on.”
As Vreeland regained his deserted rooms in the Elmleaf he strangely
recalled the last bitter denunciation of the Lady of the Red Rose: “I
leave it to the future to punish you.”
But on his table, two letters awaited him which brought a glow of
secret delight to his heart.
A note from Senator James Garston bidding him name a day for a
_tête-à-tête_ dinner at the Plaza closed with these words of hope:
“I wish to enlist you in some matters of moment which may turn out to
our mutual advantage. You are just the kind of a man that I feel I can
work with. Please telegraph the date to me at the Arlington Hotel,
Washington, and I will meet you—the sooner the better.
“It is unnecessary to say that this is a matter leading to a strictly
confidential business association, and so, not a word of my coming,
even to Miss Norreys.
“I wish to see you alone, and if you will act with me we shall both
soon be busy.
“Just the leading card to draw him into my hands. If he will only
unbosom himself ever so little, then I can soon tie Mrs. Willoughby
down, for this is the man she fears. Else why that stolen interview at
Lakemere? And from all knowledge of that, even Justine was excluded.
Let him but come forward, and they are both mine.”
The second letter with its inclosure was the result of a long struggle
between Miss Joanna Marble and the social reluctance of that “shy
bird,” the stately Miss Romaine Garland. Joanna had gained ground at
last.
Vreeland smiled grimly as he read the corrupt agent’s letter. It was an
evening invitation couched in his interest and skillfully arranged.
“You are to come at 10:30, sir—fashionable hours. You will find me
ready to greet you.
“The musicale and supper, with a little informal dancing, will enable
me to see that you escort Miss Garland home. I shall be ‘suddenly
indisposed,’ and then you are easily the Prince Charming of the
occasion.
“The hostess is a trusted friend of mine.
“But how ‘shy’ your beautiful bird is. Romaine has called several times
on me, and yet she will not give me her personal address. She always
receives her letters at Station Q, General Delivery.
“And when I offered to come for her she said, quietly: ‘I will call
for you, dear Miss Marble, with a carriage, and we can go together.’ I
wonder is she one of us after all—a _sly_ bird, not a _shy_ bird?”
The address given was that of a respectably situated residence in
the West Eighties, a region blessed with slightly stiffening social
aspirations toward “elitedom,” as the journals deftly put it.
Senator James Garston in Washington was triumphant as he read
Vreeland’s dispatch fixing a date for the private dinner. “I can easily
tole this vain young fellow on with Katharine,” he gleefully cried.
“And if I can only reach Margaret Cranstoun’s child, I will soon bring
her proud head back to my bosom.”
The stern soldier of fortune mused long over olden days, his days of
youth and promise, when his girl-wife was only a plighted bride, a
woman of awakened heart, “whose head, like an o’er-wearied dove, came
fluttering down to rest.”
“I will have them both,” the Senator swore. “Why should my life’s
harvest be but chaff?
“For, the child is mine. The mother was once mine, and through fire and
flood I’ll go on and prove my title against the whole world.
“If this young favorite can only find me the hidden girl, he shall not
want for fortune, and a marriage with Katharine Norreys will tie him
forever to me.”
It all promised fair enough.
But, plot and counterplot was forgotten as Harold Vreeland, superbly
poised in his habitual adamantine calm, edged his way into the
listening circle of the “select few” who had been gathered at
Mrs. Ollie Manson’s ambitious musicale. It was a gala evening in the
West End.
A furtive conference with Miss Marble had caused him to slip into
the hushed rooms during the period when the _convives_ were hanging
breathlessly upon Miss Bettina Goldvogel’s rendering of “Beauty’s
Eyes.” The Prince Charming’s advent was unobserved.
When the music ceased, Vreeland, who had been gazing upon Romaine
Garland, a sweet and lonely figure, seated there with her hands clasped
and her stately head bent, was alarmed as he pressed forward through
the unfamiliar throng.
There was a flush of sudden crimson on the tall girl’s cheek, and
then, a swift Diana, she passed on, a vision of stately beauty in
her unfamiliar evening dress. The excited trickster was swift in her
pursuit.
Vreeland’s step was on the stair, but a warning touch at once recalled
him. With serpentine swing, Miss Joanna Marble sought the secret
precincts of the robing rooms. “Let me handle this matter,” was the
whispered comment. “Wait below in the drawing-room.”
The effusive welcome of Mrs. Ollie Manson was lost upon the man who had
caught one glance of aversion from those truthful eyes into which his
veiled blandishments had never brought one gleam of tenderness in those
long hours at the Elmleaf. “Had she taken the alarm?”
When he was released from the little circle with its _sotto voce_
comments, “Clubman,” “Rich young banker, my dear,” and other social
incense, he saw the thin, bewhiskered Mr. Solon Manson, with a startled
expression, handing Miss Romaine Garland down the front steps to her
waiting carriage.
It was a five minutes of agony, and the last strains of “_Non è Ver_”
had reverberated from Sig. Trombonini’s swelling bosom before Miss
Joanna Marble, her face ashen with the pallor of rage, drew Vreeland
into the library.
“You’ll never see that young tragedy queen again,” wrathfully whispered
the angered woman. “She only told her driver to take her to the
elevated railroad station at Ninetieth Street. I had posted the little
Manson to get her address.
“There must be someone nearer to her than you ever will be. She is as
deep as the sea, and she dared to lash me with her icy tongue. ‘I see
it all, Miss Marble,’ she snapped out. ‘Your friendly invitation was a
lure to put me on a false basis with my elegant employer.
“‘You know the girl breadwinner has no protection against such a man
but the honest independence of her daily labor. Should he bend to woo
the woman who stands mute before him daily, pencil in hand? I can not
meet my employer socially.’”
“And you?” breathlessly cried Vreeland.
“I stood mute; for I dared go no further. But I have her picture, at
any rate. I will have her secretly shadowed.
“I will wager my head there is some one nearer and dearer to the shy
bird than Miss Majestic would have me believe. You can’t blame me; I
did my best. But it has been a Waterloo.”
The listener swore a mighty oath in his sudden jealous rage. Vreeland’s
face hardened.
“See here, just lock her picture up in your private safe. Do
nothing—wait for me. I’ll follow up the quest alone.”
“And there is five hundred dollars for your obedience, and now,
silence. I’ll stay here an hour and jolly these people.”
“To-morrow at ten at your office. And if you should meet her, simply
ignore the matter.
“I shall tell her, of course, that Manson, an old friend, asked me
informally, and that our meeting was brought about by pure chance.”
Miss Joanna Marble’s hard laugh rattled in her “bony frame.” “I think
our _ingenue_, young as she is, has already a little commencement of
a ‘past,’ a little ‘jardin secret,’ where flowers of other days still
bloom.
“But I am in your hands. I will obey you. You are the paymaster, and
you know I am not ‘in business for my health.’”
On his homeward way, Vreeland studied the stars with an anxious brow.
“She shall not get away from me,” he swore. “I wonder if Mary Kelly and
she are now only duplicate spies of the woman who once had a use for
me, and now fears the poor tools she has used. Did I get at the whole
Hathorn secret?
“That is forever sealed in poor Fred’s grave.”
He started as a brilliant golden star trailed over the inky blackness
of the night.
“That’s bad luck,” he gloomily reflected, as he cursed the wary young
girl’s divination of his clumsy social trick. “It was a wretched
botch,” he said, as he angrily dismounted at his own door, and the
failure over-shadowed his gloomy slumbers.
Three days later, when Harold Vreeland gazed across the dinner table
at Senator James Garston’s immutable face, he wondered what future
intrigues were hidden behind the mask of the strong man’s assumed
carelessness. They were alone, hidden in a retired room of the
Millionaires’ Club, and, as of old, Harold Vreeland, played his waiting
game. The two men were fairly matched—past masters of deceit.
Greed, ambition, revenge, a desire to reach the gilded coterie of New
York’s _crème de la crème_, all these motives Vreeland suspected, but
not that an old love, revived in a burning passion, a mad desire for
repossession, thrilled the hardened heart of the man “who had once
thrown a pearl away, richer than all his tribe.”
Vreeland was wary and yet uneasy. His heart’s desire, easily won
wealth, now seemed to recede, like the pot of gold buried beneath the
rainbow. He swore to make no mistake in the impending deal.
After a long mental debate, he had decided upon separate hiding places
for the copy and the original of the one document, which, a two-edged
scimetar, gave him a crushing control, he fondly fancied, over Alynton,
Garston, and also the Lady of Lakemere.
“I must be careful,” he mused. Either of the men would be a relentless
foe, and to him Mrs. Willoughby, now represented only incarnated
dollars and cents. Lucre, not love.
With all his deeply-laid plots, he was baffled at all points, for his
own rooms were still every day deserted save by the adroit valet.
With tears of rage, Miss Joanna Marble gave up to him the picture of
Romaine Garland, the one visible token of that young Diana’s existence.
“I have failed, and even the Mansons can get no trace. I have even sent
the picture around among all the hackmen as far as the Harlem River,”
was Joanna’s meager report. “The girl has simply vanished and left no
trace behind.
“The man who ‘began her past’ for her has probably spirited the young
vixen away. It was a masterly change of base, for she, sly one, took
wing at once on recognizing that you would like to be something more
than an employer.”
And so, with orders for a redoubled energy in research, and the hope of
a glittering reward, Joanna Marble returned to her mart of souls and
her veiled brokerage of innocence.
A comprehensive business letter from Mrs. Elaine Willoughby had at
last directed Mr. Harold Vreeland to relieve Horton Wyman as general
supervisor of the firm. The veiled steel hand under the velvet glove
was concealed there.
“You will have ample assistance in Noel Endicott and Maitland. Your
partner needs a few weeks’ rest. Anything private will, of course, be
communicated to you by Judge Endicott. I shall await my own delayed
recovery, and perhaps, a fortnight at Lakemere may restore me.
“Of course, as I shall keep Miss Kelly with me, there will be no
business transacted uptown. I only depend upon you now for a daily
watch during business hours of the firm’s affairs. As Noel Endicott has
been made a Stock Exchange member, he will handle the Board matters,
and you will hear my orders from Judge Endicott through him.”
The letter was curt, chilling, and still courteous. It was however a
polite closing of the social doors of the Circassia, and the anxious
Vreeland, by a prompt evening call, soon verified the fact of the
temporary absence of the woman who seemed to easily escape his toils.
There was no one at his rooms to handle the concealed wires now.
And Justine Duprez, too, had been snapped away out of his sight by the
unannounced departure of her mistress. He was helpless now to continue
any effective espionage.
Even Helms, the janitor, mournfully shook his head. “The wires are all
silent,” he grumbled. “The mail, too, all now goes direct to Lakemere,
and so I’ve nothing to tell you.” But he wanted a handsome “temporary
loan” just as usual.
A lurid ray of warning light soon gleamed upon Vreeland’s path in a
letter brought by Dr. Alberg from the beleaguered Frenchwoman. It was
only a scrawl, but a scrawl of unmistakably grave import.
“There is danger hovering near, _mon amant_,” she warned. “The old
judge, the newspaper man, and his ugly, raw-boned sister have all been
here, with the Kelly, little green-eyed Irish devil, and the other
girl, the pretty one, who was her assistant with you.
“_Dieu!_ how handsome that woman is. But they are all gone away now
save the old judge, who comes every day, going back at night, and the
Kelly woman, who goes home Saturday night. The other girl went away
at night with the two Conyers. Watch the Kelly. She may come down to
your office to spy. I fear that Madame has already missed the paper.
Remember, we must stand and fall together, you and I. If I ever find
that dark-eyed beauty near you, some dark night, look out for a dash of
vitriol in her pretty face. That’s all. You would not dare to punish
me! I will have no rivals! _You belong to me now!_” Vreeland groaned in
his helpless rage.
Harold Vreeland’s heart beat wildly as Senator Garston, after locking
the door, drew two chairs into the middle of the room. He studied the
young man’s face and said slowly:
“Vreeland, I am now in a position to make a fortune for you. I can
easily see that you depend on Mrs. Willoughby in some way. I want you
to take a few moments to consider whether you will not put yourself
unreservedly into my hands, and so, in helping me, help yourself. You
know what the favor of rich women finally amounts to. The day that the
wind blows cold you are left out in the street. But I can put you ‘on
velvet.’ Now, don’t speak too quickly. It is a very serious matter. You
and I can work like men together, with no change of heart.”
“What do you wish of me?” guardedly demanded Vreeland. “It must be
nothing inimical to Mrs. Willoughby’s stock interests. I am no
babbler, and no traitor.”
“Your character is perfectly safe in my hands,” half sneered Garston.
“I merely want you to help me, and make your own future, while not
injuring your lovely employer.
“I know already, through Alynton, that you’re only a figurehead in the
firm, and, by the way, he is pushing that nephew of his right in as
fast as he can, between you and Mrs. Willoughby. He does not like you.
A touch of jealousy.” The chance shot told, and it cut Vreeland to the
quick. Garston smiled sardonically.
Harold Vreeland’s face was livid with rage as the strong man calmly
gazed into his eyes and said: “If you have ever nourished the idea of
managing Elaine Willoughby, you can dismiss it. The lady is some years
your senior, and moreover, there may be prior claims. A man like you,
with your present standing and possible future, should only mate with
someone like Katharine Norreys. The maternal tinge to a marriage with
an elder woman is not the thing for a man of your marked gifts, your
position, and your career. You can do better. The afternoon sun of life
has little real warmth in it. Be warned in time.”
Vreeland sprang to his feet. “It seems that you are taking an
unwarrantable liberty,” he hotly protested. He had now dropped the
waiting game—but he had fallen into able hands.
“Nonsense,” calmly replied the Senator-elect. “You will be left out in
the street in three months if you let the cold-hearted Alynton dominate
that woman’s changing mind. He wishes to marry her _himself_. I say
that he shall not! Now, you see, our game is the same. He has already
enough power to displace you—for reasons entirely beyond your control.”
The words “Sugar syndicate” leaped to Vreeland’s pale lips, but he
mastered himself. “Tell me the truth. Give me the whole game. Show me
where you can secure me—and then I am your man. But I will not be paid
off with fairy tales.” James Garston laughed easily.
“I am a good paymaster, and I’ve already learned my cue. Nothing for
nothing in New York. I would never dare to trifle with a wideawake man
like you,” and then Vreeland bowed and smiled.
“Then, what must I do for you?” demanded Vreeland, who was now
thoroughly off his guard.
The Senator studied his man carefully. “I think that I’ll trust you,”
he slowly said. Standing before his would-be dupe he said, carelessly.
“I had supposed that you knew that Mrs. Willoughby was still bound in a
marriage which would make all your season’s work ‘love’s labor lost.’”
The secret was out at last!
Vreeland’s eyes were downcast. He tried to guard his tell-tale face.
“And has a daughter now old enough to be a more fitting wife to
you than even that Indian-summer beauty—the mother,” remorselessly
continued the Senator, as Vreeland sprang to his feet in a torment.
“Now, I want you to find that daughter for me—and if you do, your
fortune is made.” He quietly added: “You see the presence of that
girl would spoil the Alynton marriage, and Elaine Willoughby has
only a heart of stone. She has merely drawn Alynton on by an assumed
resistance. My lady has played her cards well. I want to find the
girl—and break off that match—for business reasons.”
The flood of burning jealousy which swept over Vreeland’s mind now
washed away the last vestige of his calculating prudence. Alynton
should never have the Lady of Lakemere.
For a moment a torturing, haunting resemblance was strangely made plain
to him. And now he would hunt down that lost lamb which had escaped
both himself and that thirsty she-wolf, Joanna Marble. There was a
double motive for the chase now.
“Is that the girl whom you are searching for?” suddenly exclaimed the
excited broker, as he thrust Romaine Garland’s picture before the gaze
of the astonished Western millionaire.
There was a cry—an echo of the buried past surging now from Garston’s
breast. The echo of a love long dead.
“By God! It is Margaret herself—at eighteen. Tell me—tell me—where did
you get this?” He had seized Vreeland by both hands and the picture lay
between them, smiling up at the excited men from the wine-stained table.
Vreeland bitterly thought of the vacant chair in his luxurious den—the
chair that Romaine Garland had quitted forever. He began to see that
plainly which as hitherto had only glimmered “as in a glass darkly.”
And for a second time, Fate had dealt him a heavy blow. She had escaped
him as scathless as the “Lady of the Red Rose.” He had a foothold left,
however.
“That is my secret, sir,” sharply said Vreeland, as he wrenched himself
loose, and pocketed the photograph sent “for inspection to Miss Marble.”
“And that secret is for sale to you, on fair conditions.”
“Let us make instant terms, Vreeland,” cried Garston, dropping into a
chair. He was eager now. He reached out for a glass of cognac.
“Your game is mine—and mine is yours. If you find that girl for me I’ll
make your fortune—I swear it. I’ll put you into the strongest secret
circle in America.
“You shall handle all my private affairs—but I must have a gage of your
fidelity—even when I’ve paid the price.”
He watched the breathless schemer, who faltered: “And that is, when
you marry Katharine Norreys there will be no secrets between us. You
shall have money now—but to open all the doors even to you of the
‘Illuminati,’ you must be mine in interest—forever.” And then they
opened their hearts to each other for the lust of gold, revenge and
power.
The stars were low in the west before the two wary adversaries had
chaffered along to a reasonable basis of bargain and sale.
“To-morrow—I ask only till to-morrow to think all over,” was the truce
which parted them. And so each knew no more of the other’s heart
secrets at the last than those impulsive outbreaks of Nature which will
not down. But they had drifted very near on life’s sea. There were the
wildest dreams of a brilliant future thronging Vreeland’s brain as he
left the Millionaires’ Club to find Dr. Hugo Alberg in his midnight
haunt where the Kegelbahn—beer of the stoutest Munich brew, and the
songs of the Vaterland invited the Teuton to these cheap luxuries,
recalling his happy student days. Vreeland soon caught his gloomy bird.
Vreeland quickly led the startled Doctor aside. He handed over to him
five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Get out of here by the first morning
train. Make any professional excuse. Find out who is up at Lakemere
with your patient, and, from Justine you must get me the whereabouts of
that dark-haired girl who worked for me. The pretty one that you saw in
my room—Miss Romaine Garland.”
“I will be waiting for you at your rooms on your return—and, bid
Justine not to dare to write or send a message save by you. There is
the devil to pay somewhere!”
Neither Senator Garston nor Harold Vreeland were to be found on the
busy Saturday which dawned upon them. For Vreeland, telegraphing down
to the office that he was called out of town for the half-holiday,
closeted himself with a downtown detective firm.
Long before the hour for Alberg’s return, Vreeland knew that Hugh
Conyers was absent at New Orleans, on a mission for the “Clarion,” and
that his art-loving sister had accompanied him, en route to Colorado
Springs, for the rest of the raw spring season. Their dainty little
apartment was closed and locked.
There were thus two dangerous enemies out of the way.
At five o’clock the travel-wearied Dr. Alberg returned with his budget
of news.
“There has been a devil of a scene up at Lakemere,” growled the Teuton.
“I found my handsome vixen of a patient in a decidedly healthy rage.
This Senator Garston came up on a train an hour later than mine.
“There was a violent quarrel between him and our patroness. Justine
could only linger near enough to hear loud voices, and soon, Garston
dashed away as madly as if the Wild Huntsman was after him. Now, our
one friend bids me tell you that Sara Conyers has really gone West on
business for Mrs. Willoughby.
“The pretty fraulein has vanished, too—but she is in some plot. The
night before the Conyers woman left, the three sat up nearly the whole
night. Justine would have followed this girl, but she can not manage to
be even a moment out of the mistress’ sight. And old Endicott comes and
goes every day. Justine hates the very shadow of the Garland woman, for
Madame has taken one of her sudden fits of fancying a new face—you know
how that lasts,” growled Alberg.
Harold Vreeland sought out Senator Garston, whom he found at dinner,
with the sparkling California beauty at his side. A few whispers were
exchanged, and then, an appointment was soon made. Garston gave no
sign to the young man that he had listened that day to a defiance unto
death. “He is a liar, too,” mused Vreeland, and yet, for all this, he
forgot, too, to even mention that he had been out of town.
And yet, gazing into Katharine Norreys’ inviting eyes, as he bade
her adieu, Vreeland found that part of his “purchase price” to be
wonderfully fair.
“I could go easily through life with her, backed by a senatorial
‘push,’ and plenty of money.
“But I will have it all secured. The money all paid down first. Garston
then becomes my real employer. In this ominous drift, I must change
ships at sea—always a risky business, but yet the bold-hearted Perry
won laurels and immortality thereby. And yet, this man may be tricking
me.” Vreeland, after cogitation, realized that Garston had not actually
lied, but he had prudently held back the truth. “I suppose that he is
holding the old secret of her early life over her.
“Who the dickens was the missing man? This girl must have had a father.
And that father hailed Elaine Willoughby as ‘Margaret’ in her heyday.
“I suppose this cold, granite-hearted upstart has blackmailed his way
into the secret pool of the ‘sweetness and light.’
“Sugar and Oil is a most profitable amorphous mixture.
“And he would now like to block Alynton’s little game—and so to be free
to hold the past over this wonder-working woman’s head.”
“Senator Garston,” cried Vreeland, “you may yet find that love will not
be led in chains. Of all hells on earth, the embrace of an unwilling
woman is the coldest revenge of an outraged Nature. And he should
beware of Elaine—if she can, she will strike back at him like a wounded
lioness.
“And for my own safety there is but one rule, ‘Cash down on the
delivery of goods.’
“And so far, he only proposes partial payments—with Katharine Norreys
as our mutual gage of faith to the last.”
Agnostic as he was, Vreeland was forced to admit that Garston’s
disclosure of Mrs. Willoughby’s marital chains had swept away his last
hope of ever being the master of Lakemere.
She was still the wife of some unknown John Doe—and Vreeland knew that
Garston would never babble.
The young broker was ready now to play his last card to make his
position between the two enemies impregnable. He was again at Life’s
crossroads. But he had a last little game to play out before a final
decision.
He was the picture of elegant prosperity as he picked his way up the
long stairs of the modest apartment on a side street where the humble
Kelly family gazed from a four-story window upon a row of private
stables opposite.
The hour was opportune, and his own coupé awaited him below. The hands
of the little clock marked nine as Vreeland raised his hat to the
white-haired old Irish mother seated there, prayer-book in hand, and
giving a touch of dignity to the plain little “parlor.”
The keen-eyed young schemer quickly noted the photograph of Miss
Romaine Garland proudly given the place of honor upon the mantel.
Before he could announce his errand, Miss Mary Kelly painfully limped
in from the other room, whence a murmur of voices had told him of her
presence. If he could only trap her into revealing Romaine’s address!
All his gentle gravity of manner was manifest as Vreeland explained
his personal call. “I desire to send to Miss Garland her uncollected
monthly salary, and also to obtain some private papers which must be
yet in her possession,” began Vreeland, carefully studying the girl’s
plaintive pale face.
“If you would kindly give me Miss Garland’s present address, I can send
a messenger to her. She probably forgot the papers.”
Vreeland paused, and then his heart hardened, as the young girl’s
fearless eyes looked him through and through.
There was an indictment in her innocent glances which made him mutter,
“Miss Majesty has surely blabbed about the Ollie Manson musicale. That
was a clumsy failure.”
“I cannot give you Miss Garland’s address, Mr. Vreeland,” said the
girl, with an uneasy glance at her old mother.
“She has left New York City for good, and I think has gone to
California.”
“When she said ‘good-by’ to me, she mentioned that she would not care
to continue as the only woman worker in your employ. I presume that you
will hear from her through Miss Marble’s agency.”
Vreeland’s quick wit told him that here was “no thoroughfare.” And all
his mean suspicions had been strengthened by Joanna Marble’s world-worn
innuendoes. His lips curled in an unmanly sneer. “Ah, yes! I think I
shall write to Miss Marble, and now inform her of the young woman’s
dishonorable discharge. I can, of course, send her salary to the
agency, and as for my papers, I presume that they went to California
with her ‘character.’ Respectable young women are usually not ashamed
to own their residence. Did she tell you this up at Lakemere?”
His voice was cutting and insulting in its brutal sneer.
The frightened semi-cripple was struggling to her feet to leave the
room, when a brawny, blue-coated young giant dashed through the still
opened door.
He seized Vreeland’s wrist with an iron clutch and twisted him around
before the startled young girl, while the old mother’s hands went up in
a pious appeal. There was the hatred of hell on Vreeland’s face as he
struggled in that vise-like grip.
“Forbear, Dan Daly! Remember that he’s under our roof,” the aged widow
cried.
The young roundsman fixed a truculent glance upon the astonished
Vreeland. “Apologize, both to the present and absent, you great hulking
coward,” he cried. “If it were not for my blue coat, I’d throw you down
stairs. And now get out the way you came. Be quick, too, about it!”
With a mumbled apology, crestfallen and raging at heart, Vreeland
sneaked down stairs.
“I was a fool to get into this low Irish nest,” he growled, as he
sprang into his coupé.
When safely back at the “Elmleaf” he reviewed the whole situation.
“There’s a cold plant here! That woman has never left this town. I
think that I’ll work the wires to Colorado Springs, and the detectives
can handle California for me.”
He went out to a gay little late supper, not realizing that Dan Daly
the Roundsman had just sworn a mighty oath to “keep his eye” on the
elegant member of the “Swell Mob,” and all Daly’s oaths were sworn to
for love’s sweet sake, and were doubly iron clad.
It was with a shiver of impending fear that Vreeland, pausing at a
cigar store on Herald Square, accidentally overheard the night chatter
of two late newspaper Bohemians: “I always thought Hugh Conyers was not
a marrying man, but it seems that he is a quiet, sneaking lover after
all.”
“Down at Philadelphia the other day I saw him put his sister, Sara,
on board a State line boat for Europe, and the prettiest young woman
I ever saw, a staving-looking brunette, was with the old maid artist.
Hugh was mighty affectionate, too, I can tell you.”
“Liars and deceivers all,” raged Vreeland. “But I’ve got their whole
game now. They have run her over to Europe. I can find her there
easily.”
He went home, triumphant in his future plans, little dreaming that
Mrs. Elaine Willoughby had called Justine to her bedside at Lakemere a
half an hour before. “I have been robbed, and robbed here, in my own
house,” the lady sternly said. “You alone know of the paper hidden in
my corset. Explain at once.”